


After The War Was Won

by willowswhiten



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mating Rituals, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Prince Stiles Stilinski, Romance, Soldier Derek Hale, Soulmates, Witch Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24197119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowswhiten/pseuds/willowswhiten
Summary: The war is over, and King Scott of Beacon has summoned his noblemen to court. Amongst them is Derek, Alpha Duke of Hale, a young man whose ferocity and heroism have made him a household name, even beginning to change the public's perception of wolf-shifters. After all, Derek and his pack are widely considered to have turned the tides of the war in Beacon's favour.Omega Prince Stiles' war has been a bloody one, though he never saw a moment's conflict. As a noble omega, his life should have been champagne and gossip, but instead he somehow persuaded his brother to let him use his magick and work as a healer in the court's emergency hospital.With the final battle in such close memory, can either trust in what fate has planned?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura
Comments: 88
Kudos: 1190





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK so this has been a WIP for a while, literally based on a cough-syrup dream :D
> 
> In this world, 'birthgivers' (male and female omegas, female betas) are treated much the way women have been throughout history. Omegas are slightly less common in the general population, as are alphas.
> 
> Also I'm furloughed under quarantine in the UK and BORED so if you have any comments, questions or suggestions, HMU in the comments. <3
> 
> *For nerds:* While none of this is based on any particular chapter of history, naming conventions are taken from British nobility with a smidge of French, because they're the ones I know. So Derek, Duke of Hale can be addressed as 'Hale' by those of same or superior rank to him (basically, just royalty), can be referred to as 'the Duke', 'Lord Derek', 'Lord Hale', or, in conversation, 'my Lord.' If he were to sign his name, he would write it as 'Derek de Hale', or 'Derek of Hale'. ***

‘I don’t see what the big deal is,’ Stiles said. 

He checked the stack of notes the night shift had left, and gritted his teeth at the incomprehensible mess that was Greenberg’s handwriting.

Annabel, at his side, just sighed romantically. This was not a new development; Annabel sighed romantically about soldiers just about every day.

It should have been annoying, but she and Stiles both volunteered at the Palace Infirmary for Injured Troops, and honestly, Annabel’s approach went down a treat with the patients. Annabel thought they were all  _ wonderful _ .

They enthusiastically returned the sentiment. 

While everyone was gushing, Stiles sanitised wounds and set broken bones.

Stiles was not as popular as Annabel.

‘The big deal,’ Annabel gushed, ‘is that the Halean Wolf Pack is coming here! To the City!’

Stiles had heard this all before. The war had only been officially over for a few days, but in the previous weeks, there’d been a steady trickle of troops coming through the infirmary doors as their commanding officers were summoned to court.

The commanding officers, usually noblemen who’d barely seen battle, would receive honours and adulation.

The soldiers would come to Stiles and Annabel to have their hastily patched-up injuries seen to by a proper healer, with spellbooks and herbs and not just a splintered emergency-wand and a dream.

Stiles had seen more than one soldier whose wound was no longer deadly, but was now disfiguring. Or who could walk and fight, but was too traumatised to sleep through the night.

He’d listened to Annabel wax poetic, in the last few weeks, about the Dorian Cavalry, the Saffronian Sorcerer Army and the Gylian Hog-Mounted Raiders.

Those last had required a bath before they could be allowed into the infirmary. People here were sick enough already.

Mostly, Stiles ignored the hype. Any injured soldier needed treatment; he didn’t particularly care what grand deeds had gotten them all messed up.

‘C’mon, Sire, the Hale Pack! The Daring Duke and his packmates saved the citizens of Fritha from invasion! They assassinated  _ two _ General Argents in their sleep!  _ Last week _ they fought in the Battle of Brishen and the Duke of Hale  _ himself _ refused to leave the children’s home during the retreat. They held the line single-handed, against orders, and turned the tide.’

Stiles… had actually heard about that.

It had been hard not to.

The idiot had basically won them the war. The Argents accepted defeat twelve hours after their unsuccessful attempt to hold the invaded city of Brishen.

‘Unless they need me, I don’t have time to join in their parade,’ Stiles snapped, then immediately felt bad at Annabel’s suddenly sad face.

Yes, Annabel’s hero worship could get annoying, but she - like the Hales - was a werewolf, and there were still plenty of people who treated werewolves as dangerous criminals unfit for mixed society.

She actually had a perfect right to feel reflected glory in the success of Hale and his pack.

He patted her on the shoulder. ‘That doesn’t mean  _ you _ can’t join the parade. Or the general throng of admirers they’ll have going on, whatever. I’ve got this under control, Bel - why don’t you head down? I can hold the fort here.’

Annabel looked at him like he was made of birthday cake.

‘But… your  _ highness… _ ’

Stiles flinched.

He could sometimes go whole days, in the infirmary, without being reminded that  _ technically _ , Annabel was less of a nurse and more of… his bodyguard.

Because he was the youngest scion of the house of Beacon, and the only omega child.

‘Bel, no one here knows who I am. And no one here would ever hurt me.’

‘I’m sorry, Sire, I can’t just leave you. I know you’re strong, and everything, but you’re still an omega, and people can be… well.’

She didn’t need to say it.

Stiles understood the need for Annabel to stay by his side even as the injustice of it rankled. Stiles was a young, un-bonded omega.

Even if he wasn't royalty, he would never have been allowed to just wander about on his own. Stiles could hold his own in a fight, but everyone had heard stories, both in wartime and peace.

_ What if you were outnumbered, _ his oldest brother, Scott, had said, desperate, as he tried to convince Stiles to follow the rules and keep Annabel, an alpha  _ and _ a werewolf, by his side.  _ What if they drugged you? _

So. Annabel stayed, and Stiles got to experience more freedom that he had any right to expect. His brother, the King of Beacon, loved him and wanted him to be happy.

Stiles was allowed to work in the infirmary. He was allowed to go out into the City, albeit with an armed escort. He was allowed to  _ choose _ who, and  _ if _ , he mated, a luxury few omegas were afforded, even amongst commoners.

Stiles  _ huffed _ and Annabel beamed at him, knowing his resolve was gone. Together, they did their rounds, and Annabel kept up a near-constant stream of chatter.

Their patients, it transpired, were excited at the arrival of the Halean Wolf Pack, too.

Stiles had never heard anyone speak of wolves with such affection and pride.

Annabel was glowing, and Stiles’ slightly sour mood rapidly improved through a combination of her joy and his own focus in his work.

He barely noticed when, a few hours into his work day, Annabel stiffened and stared at two newcomers standing in the doorway.

The infirmary was a converted hall of worship, with high gabled ceilings and nothing but beds between where Stiles worked on his patient and the newcomers.

Stiles glanced up. He was able to make out two tall, strongly built men with ragged, long hair and beards and tattered uniforms, one leaning heavily on the other.

‘They’re  _ wolves _ ,’ Annabel hissed.

Stiles looked at her, then went back to re-dressing the wound of the Hog-Mounted Raider below him. 

‘You said we were expecting them,’ he reminded her absently.

‘Yes, but…’ She crouched down beside the Raider’s bed and hid her mouth with her hand, whispering sharply at Stiles. ‘Sire, I haven’t really… I haven’t ever met another wolf.’

Stiles blinked down at her. ‘Never?’

‘I was orphaned before I can remember by hunters on the Argent border,’ Annabel said all in a rush.

Stiles felt a wave of compassion and the familiar twinge that said:  _ well done, Stiles, you’re an asshole _ .

Because he’d been working with Annabel for nearly three years and he never knew that.

He finished up with the Raider and smiled down at him. ‘You’ll be up and about tomorrow, Lieutenant Kayen.’

He grabbed Annabel by the elbow and helped her to her feet. ‘Bel, I might not know much about wolves, but I do know that you should be on your feet when you meet them.’

The two soldiers drew closer, and one of them - the one able to stand unaided - let out a low, strange whimper.

Stiles looked at him. He had wild, matted black hair and a matching beard. His eyes were a strange gold-green and his pupils were dilated, his nostrils flared, and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

His companion was fair-haired, though no less of a mess. There was clearly something badly wrong with his leg, and when Stiles took a breath, he caught a collection of very faint, very strange scents beneath the general battlefield-and-travel grime both men wore.

‘Cap?’ The fair-haired soldier said to the other. ‘Are you alright?’

The scents were baffling. Stiles breathed deep and the black-haired solider’s gaze dropped to his lips, his eyes still wide and horrified.

The dark-haired man was an alpha. That was abundantly clear - beneath the filth, his natural scent was soft and dark and might have been nice, but it was truly difficult to tell.

What was interesting was his companion. The younger, fair-haired wolf was an omega.

Stiles was certain, despite what seemed like a fairly expensive, good-quality scent-masking charm.

One of Stiles’ natural magicks was the ability to see - or  _ smell _ \- straight through glamours. His mother had described it, once, as an ability to root out bullshit.

Stiles had  _ never _ heard of an omega soldier. He tried to collect himself and gestured at a spare bed down the hall.

‘Cap?’ the omega seemed increasingly distressed, so Stiles gave a small noise of frustration, stepped forward, and without preamble took him from the alpha. ‘Um… hi?’

Stiles snorted. ‘Hi. I’m Stiles, I’ll be your healer today. Let’s leave tall, dark and freaking-out to collect himself, shall we?’ To Annabel, he said: ‘Keep an eye on him, Bel. If he hyperventilates, put him on a spare bed and check him over.’

For some reason, this seemed to spur the alpha into action. He hurried down the infirmary to catch up with Stiles and the omega, and took back the latter’s weight, helping him down onto an empty bed.

‘Lieutenant Isaac de Lahey,’ the omega - Isaac - said by way of introduction, ‘of the Halean wolves.’

Stiles nodded and without preamble set to cutting away Isaac’s trousers.

‘Hey! Hey, healer, those are my best pants!’

‘They stink,’ Stiles said, simply. ‘You’ll thank me in the morning.’

Beneath the fabric, Isaac’s leg was mangled. The flesh was ripped from thigh to calf, with obvious filth caught in the wound and making it fester. As a wolf, Isaac healed fast, but fast wasn’t always  _ good _ , and Stiles drew on his power to assess the damage.

The silent alpha let out a small  _ hiss _ of surprise when Stiles’ eyes flooded black and his power made the air around him shimmer like a mirage.

Stiles ignored him and ran his hands without preamble along the flesh of Isaac’s leg.

There was infection, dirt, and his femur had fused back together poorly, recently, though probably not in the same incident that caused the flesh wound.

When Stiles spoke, his voice carried the ethereal echo of his power. Isaac paled.

‘This will hurt. Your companion will need to hold you down.’

‘Captain?’ Isaac looked beseechingly at the alpha. ‘Cap, we don’t need to do this. I’m healing fine, I told you, I-’

The alpha went to the head of the bed, growled, and with shocking strength pushed Isaac down to the mattress by his shoulders.

‘Listen to the healer,’ the alpha managed.

His voice was strange. When Stiles glanced up, he saw it was because the alpha’s jaw was distorted with fangs. 

‘No need to get all… lupine,’ Stiles said lightly. ‘Ready, gentlemen?’

‘Yes,’ the alpha said, even as Isaac managed: ‘no?’

Isaac screamed as Stiles’ magick rushed through him, but the work was fast, and it only took a moment.

When it was done, Stiles was shaking and spent, and the bone was reset. The flesh had been torn open again and a run of Stiles’ hand, along with some whispered words, cleaned it, ready to heal again.

Stiles tried to keep his hands steady as he reached for a roll of fabric to bandage the soldier. His power was gone, and he hadn’t realised how much work it would be, because he felt like he hadn’t in years - overspent and exhausted. Apparently working with lycanthrope bone and blood was more challenging - he filed that information away for future use.

The alpha’s hand shot out and snagged the bandage. Stiles glared at him, and the alpha’s ears blushed dark red.

‘I can bandage him. You should…’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ Stiles snapped.

‘I just… your hands are shaking…’

Stiles almost felt bad. The dark-haired wolf looked thoroughly thrown off balance, and he was sucking in deep breaths through his nose, his own hands in tight white-knuckle fists.

Almost. Because Stiles had a lifetime of overbearing alphas, and years’ experience of soldiers, and he took shit from neither.

‘You can order Lieutenant Isaac around because he’s your subordinate, but I am not. I am neither your inferior nor your omega.’

Stiles held out his hand, which by sheer force of bloody-mindedness he kept steady.

The alpha dropped the bandage into his hand.

On the bed, Isaac - panting - said, ‘oh, my gods.’

He was… laughing.

‘Shut up,’ the alpha growled.

Isaac laughed harder.

‘Correction,’ Stiles said, ‘apparently your subordinate omegas don’t listen to you, either.’

_ That _ shut Isaac up. Both soldiers stared at Stiles like he’d grown horns. 

‘I don’t give a good gods-damn about your secondary gender,’ Stiles clarified, and set to work wrapping Isaac’s leg, ‘but you need to be more forthcoming with your healers. Omega biology is different - the tincture I’m going to make you drink, for example, has a different effect on alphas.’

Isaac swallowed, hard, and nodded. He glanced desperately at the alpha, whose gaze was - somewhat unsettlingly - still absolutely focused on Stiles.

‘Whose are you?’ the alpha asked around teeth he couldn’t seem to pull back.

Which, huh. Interesting. Stiles had only ever seen Annabel drop her canines like that at dinner time. Maybe it was the coppery smell of Isaac’s blood?

Stiles ignored him in favour of wrapping the leg, and the alpha drew a little bit closer.

‘Hey, big guy, no offense but you smell like a battleground right now. Give me a little room to work.’

The alpha shot backwards like he’d been slapped.

‘He wants to know if you’re mated,’ Isaac said, something like glee in his tone.

The alpha growled but didn’t correct him. Stiles didn’t look up from his work.

‘I’m my own,’ Stiles stated.

‘Hear that, Cap? He’s his  _ own _ .’

Stiles pulled tight on the bandage and Isaac cried out in pain.

He only felt a  _ little _ bad.

Annabel appeared by Isaac’s side, her eyes wide and sympathetic. ‘Oh, you poor, brave thing,’ she said.

Isaac looked up at her, startled, but it only took a moment for a half-smile to form.

Annabel had that effect on people.

‘Sire,’ she said, to Stiles, and both of the male wolves looked at Stiles with surprise at the title, ‘could I perhaps… the cookie jar?’

Stiles saw a few nearby patients perk up at that. He rolled his eyes.

‘Get a nurse to give Lieutenant Isaac a good scrubbing on your way to get it, then,’ he said. Annabel happily rushed off.

‘Sire?’ Isaac asked.

‘Yes?’

Isaac didn’t seem to know where to go from there. Stiles certainly wasn’t going to volunteer any further information.

‘The alpha she-wolf, is she… what is she?’

‘She’s my friend and colleague.’ Not a lie, but the dark-haired wolf frowned like he could sense the half-truth in Stiles’ heartbeat. ‘You’ll play nice with her if you want to survive the night, wolf-of-Hale, she’s a fan-favourite around here.’

Isaac nodded, swallowed, then pointed at the dark-haired man. ‘His ribs are all messed up.’

Stiles raised an eyebrow at the alpha, who looked absolutely murderous. ‘It’s nothing,’ he gritted out.

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Stiles said. ‘Shirt off.’

‘I don’t-’

‘Shirt. Off.’

The alpha seemed to deflate, and all at once, Stiles noticed the deep, dark bags under his eyes, the strain evident in his posture.

Stiles stepped close, and when the alpha froze like a frightened rabbit, he sighed and helped the bigger man off with his shirt and into a seated position on the free bed by Isaac’s side.

‘I’m sorry,’ the alpha said, so softly Stiles wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been right by the alpha’s head, trying to get the shirt off without jostling hurt ribs. ‘For the smell.’

Stiles… thawed, a little.

‘It’s ok,’ he said, honestly. ‘I’ve handled much worse. You’ll have time enough to wash the war off your skin.’

Presented with the alpha’s bare chest, Stiles struggled to swallow down a sigh of appreciation. He was broad-shouldered with slim hips and strong, corded muscle, his chest covered in black hair, his belly flat and strong.

The alpha was objectively beautiful. His green eyes watched Stiles as the healer hovered, one hand just above the raised ridges of his ribs.

Stiles sucked it up and pressed his hand to the skin, which was shockingly hot and soft as silk. His other palm rested on the other side, and he gathered his power.

‘Don’t… don’t exhaust yourself,’ the alpha said. ‘Like with Isaac. It’s not…’

Stiles ignored him. He was experienced with pushing through the fatigue that came with healing magicks, and besides, the alpha’s skin was like a lodestone - Stiles felt his power shimmering beneath his skin, ready to leap from his hands into the alpha’s blood.

He dove in, his eyes drifting shut as the power coursed through him.

Seven broken ribs had fused, three of them badly. He was impressed the alpha had been able to walk, let alone support Isaac’s weight.

With both hands on the alpha’s torso, Stiles let his power give a sharp pull and an immediate push, shattering and re-forming the ribs. It was a risk - there was a reason he’d asked the alpha to restrain his friend.

But his hypothesis was correct. The alpha didn’t move, nor did he make a sound as Stiles ripped apart his bones and reset them.

When Stiles opened his eyes, the alpha’s own eyes glowed red and a bead of sweat was on his brow, but he hadn’t flinched. Stiles gave him an exhausted smile.

‘Brave man,’ he said, and felt the alpha’s chest puff out beneath his hands.

Stiles stood. ‘You don’t need to stay the night, but Lieutenant Isaac will. I suggest you go get some rest, big guy.’

With that, he walked away, and felt the alpha’s gaze on his back the whole way.

The rest of his shift went by uneventfully. Apparently tall-dark-and-brooding and Isaac were the only two Halean Wolves who’d sustained injuries their natural healing couldn’t manage, because the infirmary stayed quiet and half-empty.

The war was over, Stiles reminded himself. There would be fewer and fewer injured soldiers needing care. Soon, Stiles would return to life at court, fending off advances from alphas who saw him as nothing more than an advantageous match.

He felt it like a slap in the face. Over dinner, he mostly ignored Scott as he waxed lyrical about the Duke of Hale and the Halean wolves in general.

‘Their hand-to-hand combat is completely unique,’ Scott said enthusiastically. ‘Father never said… I’m not sure he knew! They’re so isolated, up there in Hale, we know so little about their culture, even though they’re Beaconians. Lord Derek said he would teach me!’

‘That’s nice, Scotty,’ Stiles said absently, flicking through a book on surgical spells. ‘I met a couple today - they’re definitely built like fighters.’

A few days passed, and with each, more and more soldiers left the infirmary. Soon, the few left didn’t need Stiles to exhaust himself with spellcasting - they just needed time to heal.

‘Why don’t we go into the town?’ Annabel suggested. ‘They’re setting up the homecoming festival for the troops, and you can shop for fresh herbs.’

Stiles knew he’d been in a funk since their interaction with the Halean wolves, and knew that Annabel understood why.

Stiles was happy the war was over. He truly was. It had been horrific, and he’d seen for himself the impact it had on the soldiers, and on the ordinary people.

He just… didn’t want to go back to the way things were. To dancing and pretending to be interested in dull alphas who wanted Stiles for a trophy.

Stiles was a scholar. He was smart, powerful, and yes - an omega.

If Stiles ever mated, it would be to an alpha who saw those traits as desirable in and of themselves, not just the eccentricities afforded a high-born innocent.

Stiles firmly didn’t believe such a person existed. So, he was a confirmed spinster going through the interminable rigmarole of courtly life, unable to insult the boors who sought his hand because of  _ politics _ .

‘Herbs,’ Stiles agreed. ‘Sure, Bel. Let’s do it.’

‘And the twins,’ Annabel added quickly.

Stiles rolled his eyes. ‘The twins’ was what the two of them called the duo of ever-changing guards who silently - but undeniably effectively - acted as their armed escorts in public.

‘Fine. C’mon, I’m going stir-crazy.’

They made their way down to the merchant district in a discrete carriage, Stiles staring out the window and jiggling his leg with excess energy, Annabel keeping up a non-stop ode to her new favourite subject: Isaac, of Halean wolf fame.

They pulled up out back of Stiles’ favourite herbalist, and near a half-built street market setting up for the fair. It was busy, with people rushing back and forth.

Stiles took a deep breath in, gathering his power close. Together, he and Annabel progressed through the herbalist, the bookshop, the crystal-merchant and, finally, found themselves in the chaos of Black Lane, where the magick-market was booming.

‘Stay with the twins, ok, Sire? I just want to…’ Annabel trailed off, gesturing weakly at her favourite fortune-teller.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but dutifully waved at the familiar face of Hestia The Wise and gestured to his guards to follow him through the market. Annabel would be able to find him by scent when she was ready.

Stiles was inspecting some dried meadow-berries when someone shoved past him, with a sneering: ‘watch yourself, pretty boy.’

‘Wash yourself, asshole,’ Stiles shot back, unconcerned, but then a hand closed around his upper arm and he went stiff with shock.

There was a scent, all around him, that was at once familiar and absolutely unique. Soft and dark and deep, like petrichor and crushed wildflower, and absolutely alpha.

He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that it was the alpha wolf who had brought in Isaac. Stiles had been inside of the alpha’s skin, inside of his bones - Stiles knew his scent.

But apparently the alpha had taken a bath, and Stiles fought the humiliating urge to bare his neck and whine, because the scent, unmasked by filth and trauma, was  _ beautiful _ . Stiles had never known anything quite like it.

‘What are you doing here.’

It wasn’t phrased like a question. The alpha was against Stiles’ back, and it was too crowded to turn, so Stiles allowed himself a moment of weakness and took a deep breath of that scent.

‘Shopping.’

‘Don’t... healer, you should not be here alone.’

‘I’m not.’ Stiles turned to face the alpha, and gestured at the guards, who stood to attention, their focus on the alpha as a potential threat. ‘They’re with me.’

The alpha’s pretty eyes took them in, and he scowled. ‘Royal guards?’

‘Royal healer,’ Stiles said. He was shooting for  _ easy-breesy _ , but by the way the alpha’s gaze snapped to his, the revelation was more dramatic than he’d hoped. ‘Mieczyslaw, Prince Omegan of Beacon.’

‘You said your name was Stiles.’

‘Would you want to go by  _ Mieczyslaw _ ?’

There was a long, tense pause. All around them, the crowd moved in a wave, and Stiles was incredibly aware of the alpha’s strong hand on his arm and the dark shadows still on the older man’s face.

The alpha had washed and combed his hair and beard, but both were still too long, and he still looked exhausted and hungry.

‘This is where you tell me your name,’ Stiles prompted.

The alpha took a long, deep breath through his nose. His eyes fluttered shut, and he seemed to relax a fraction. He looked suddenly so tired Stiles was concerned he might keel over and smoosh Stiles under his admittedly very fine bulk.

‘Derek, Duke of Hale.’

Stiles swallowed, hard. ‘Of orphan-rescuing fame. The Daring Duke.’

The Duke scowled, but didn’t correct him. Instead, he took another deep, steadying breath and said: ‘are you done shopping.’

Stiles considered the contents of his basket and, after a beat, nodded.

‘May I walk you to your carriage,’ the Duke asked, though again, he didn’t phrase it as a question, and his teeth were gritted.

Stiles immediately bristled. ‘Look, Lord Hale, you are not my alpha.’ The Duke recoiled at that, though he did not drop his grip, as though afraid Stiles would be swept away by the crowds. ‘I have guards. Three, total, if the other one hurries the hell up. I don’t need an escort.’

The silence between them was long and strange, though the market moved all around them. Finally, Lord Hale seemed to deflate.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I just… omega, I can’t… please. Let me see that you’re safe. Please.’

_ Please _ . A tiny word and said without shame. Derek de Hale, hero of Beacon, begging an omega to let him be  _ sure _ he was safe.

‘Fine,’ Stiles managed, after a long, strange silence where the Duke kept his head tilted low, his neck bared in a parody of submissiveness, the lines of his strong body tense. ‘Whatever. One extra guard. Join the fun.’

Lord Hale finally dropped his grip on Stiles’ arm, his breath releasing in a sigh of… relief. He fell into step beside Stiles when Stiles set off, the Duke’s hands making a sort of aborted gesture towards Stiles’ basket.

Stiles rolled his eyes and handed it over. Lord Hale looked like death - Stiles could afford to be patient with ridiculous acts of chivalry.

Annabel joined them at the end of the market, and the sight of the Duke had her eyes widening and her jaw clicking shut.

‘Bel, this is Derek, Lord Hale. Lord Hale, this is my bodyguard, Dame Annabel de Personne.’

Annabel turned bright red, her eyes darting to Stiles for confirmation, who shrugged.

‘Dame Annabel,’ Lord Hale said solemnly. ‘It is good to see a young wolf in a position of such honour.’

Annabel looked like she was about to swoon, so Stiles cut them both off by simply walking away. His entourage scrambled to keep up.

‘Lord Hale, how is your Lieutenant?’ he asked over his shoulder, only to find that the Duke had caught up in surprising time and was  _ looming _ .

‘He’s well,’ the alpha said. ‘He has barely scarred, and he is able to walk.’

‘And yourself?’

Lord Hale looked momentarily confused, then pressed one hand to his side. ‘No pain whatsoever. You didn’t have to-’

‘You were in pain. I healed you. Don’t be ungrateful, Lord Hale.’

The Duke’s ears pinkened. Stiles thought he was quite ridiculously handsome.

If he ever tidied his hair and beard, he would likely cause a riot at court.

They fell into an easy silence for a few minutes. When the carriage came into sight, Stiles glanced over at the alpha wolf.

‘When was the last time you slept?’

Lord Hale blinked at him, then glared, but said nothing. Stiles powered on.

‘Because I know soldiers, Lord Hale. I know the look on your face.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I could bring you a potion, if you’d like. Sleep, without dreams.’

At that word -  _ dreams _ \- the Duke went white as a sheet. ‘How did you-’

‘I don’t think the war is over for you, Lord Hale. Not yet. I could help you, if you’d let me.’

‘I’m fine.’

Stiles threw up his hands and took back his basket, ignoring the strange look on Hale’s face.

‘Of course you are. Big, strong alpha - why would you ever admit you need help?’ Stiles managed a sunny smile. ‘Thank you for your escort, my lord. Perhaps next time you’ll save your chivalry for those who need it, as I save my breath for those willing to hear me.’

Annabel made a noise like a shocked squirrel, and Stiles climbed into his carriage without waiting for a hand to help him up. Like other male omegas at court, he wore a collection of ridiculous fabrics in place of the practical breeches-and-shirt uniform of the infirmary, which he’d grown far too used to of late.

One long, heavy length of sky blue silk wrapped his waist from ankle to hips, then was arranged diagonally across his shoulder and torso, leaving his chest mostly exposed. A long chain with a heavy gold pendant rested over his heart and bounced when he moved, and over the whole ludicrous ensemble, a gossamer-thin shawl covered him and partly obscured his body.

Stiles was convinced the whole get up was designed to be at once alluring and impractical. It prevented him from spreading his legs very far, which also meant it was hard to climb up into a carriage.

He fumbled, losing one stupid silk slipper as he half-tripped on his hem, and landed on the carriage seat.

In an instant, Lord Hale was in the carriage door, slipper in hand. Stiles huffed, rolled his eyes, and stuck out his bare foot.

There was a long, strange moment of silence in which Stiles realised he could have just asked to be  _ handed _ the stupid slipper, and then one huge, insanely warm hand was completely enveloping his ankle and the slipper was sliding back on, and then Lord Hale was gone as if he’d never been.

Annabel’s silence only lasted halfway up the road, before she let out an excited, strangled scream and commenced a monologue about Lord Hale’s every wartime achievement until they arrived back at court. Stiles just stared out the window and half-listened.

The way that the Duke had said  _ omega _ . It hadn’t been with standard-issue condescension - the alpha had been terrified for Stiles’ safety. What had he seen, in war, that made him so desperate to protect an omega he clearly didn’t even like?

He didn’t see Lord Hale again for a few days. Life at court was beginning to return to normal, now that most surviving courtiers had returned from war and spring had bloomed, which meant that Stiles’ responsibilities increased in number and urgency. His sister-in-law, the Queen, was in the final stages of her confinement and expecting her child any day now, so Stiles was the acting regent to his brother, tasked with greasing the domestic wheels of a palace with the population of a small town.

He also had a small but vocal new crop of admiring alphas driving him absolutely batshit insane.

Not one of them listened when he spoke. He hoped that his abysmal dancing would put at least a few of them off at the first ball of the season, but he knew better than to assume.

So, when he had free time, he mostly just avoided them. His preferred location for this task was the old Queen’s library, in the little used south-west wing of the keep.

It was technically accessible by any of the hundred or so courtiers who kept residence in the palace during the season, but no one ever seemed to go there but Stiles. He had a favourite couch, with his favourite blanket, all set up. He organised his own collection of books and his to-read pile in stacks on the floor.

He  _ loved _ it there.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one.

Derek de Hale looked very young when he slept. His brow unfurrowed, his expression relaxed, he lay slumped back with Stiles’ blanket held to his face, as if he had been inspecting it closely when he’d been hit firmly over the head. One of Stiles’ books lay on his lap, with one of the Duke’s fingers holding the spot.

He snored, very gently, like a snuffling pig.

Stiles was fond of pigs. Quietly, he walked across the library, picked up a book, and settled on the floor by Lord Hale’s knees, leaning back on the settee.

They sat in companionable silence until the sky outside the library window bled with a red, violent sunset. Instead of lighting a lamp or candle, Stiles closed his book and watched the sky change colour, feeling tremendously peaceful - Derek was like a furnace, and resting near him more than made up for the lack of blanket.

An aborted, choked snore was Stiles’ only sign that Derek was awake. He felt the larger man sit up straight and go very still.

‘Your Highness,’ Derek said, his voice rough with sleep.

‘Your Grace,’ Stiles acknowledged.

‘Where-’

‘You’re in the Queen’s Library. You found my reading nook, it seems.’

Silence, for a moment, then: ‘How long-’

‘Oh, at least a few hours. You were asleep when I found you.’

‘And you just… stayed?’

‘As I said. You’re in my favourite spot. Now shush, and  _ look _ .’

The sky  _ burnt _ . The view of the sunset from Stiles’ settee was always good, but tonight, it was spectacular, and Stiles gave a happy sort of noise. He leant his head back, and tilted it towards Lord Hale’s knee, enjoying the warmth.

‘It looks like a Halean sky,’ the alpha said, softly.

Stiles looked up at him. He had to tilt his head back, exposing his throat, and he saw in the half-dark the Duke’s eyes linger on his neck, his exposed collar.

Stiles fought the urge to shiver.

‘We’re at high altitude, in the keep. The forests are below us. You can see for miles, across the sea and inland, to the plains.’

This was more than the Duke had ever said in Stiles’ presence, all at once. Stiles smiled at him, lazily, and saw the alpha’s hands clench in the blanket.

‘I’ve not been… myself, of late,’ Lord Hale managed. ‘I don’t think I’ve made a very good impression on you.’

Stiles  _ hummed _ . ‘Brishen was barely a month ago, Lord Hale. Give yourself a break.’

At that, the alpha relaxed a fraction. When Stiles looked up at him, he had one hand tangled in his wild black hair, his gaze still riveted on Stiles’ throat.

‘I’m broken,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘I can’t… you’re right, your Highness. I can’t sleep, I can’t…’

Stiles tilted his face until his nose pressed against the rock-firm flesh of the Duke’s thigh.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that when we are here, I shall be Stiles. Not  _ your highness _ . And as for sleep, you only just woke up.’

He immediately wanted to snatch the words back. What on earth possessed him to act so familiar? Just because the warrior alpha looked soft and rumpled from sleep?

‘Stiles,’ the alpha repeated.

‘Derek,’ Stiles said, unable to keep a teasing note from his voice. ‘You are not broken.’

‘You can’t know that.’

Stiles shrugged and looked back at the sky, now sliding into dark blues and purples.

‘I see truth. I saw that your friend was an omega, didn’t I?’

Derek didn’t say anything, but Stiles felt his tension.

He was waiting for an answer. Waiting, whether he would admit it or not, for the healer to say something to make it  _ better _ .

Stiles had seen that, in his patients. In the warriors who had survived the southern swamps, the archers who had been forced to the frontline in the early days of the eastern front.

_ Healer _ , their eyes said,  _ tell me I will be happy again someday _ .

‘So, here is a truth, Derek de Hale, hero of Beacon: you are not the man you were before. But you are not broken. You are being re-moulded.’ Stiles took a deep breath. ‘It’ll hurt like hell. But in the end, the pain will fade. You’re going to be ok.’

‘You… you are like no one else I’ve ever known.’ Derek sounded almost frustrated, and he sighed. ‘You have no idea what you do to me, my prince.’

Stiles’ traitorous heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He hoped helplessly that Derek could not hear it.

‘Some of my patients say that an omega’s scent helps them,’ he heard himself say. ‘You should keep the blanket. It might help you sleep.’

Derek gave a little laugh. It sounded almost hysterical, but it was a  _ laugh _ , and Stiles relished the sound.

‘Thank you, Stiles.’

Stiles stood, brushed imaginary dust from himself, and tried to re-arrange the scarlet shawl that had fallen off of his shoulders.

He managed to drop it, exposing his bare chest. He’d forgotten that he still had faint traces of henna on his belly from Lady Ysolt’s engagement party until he felt the softest touch against the pattern’s swirls on his skin.

He froze. Derek did, too, for a moment - he seemed to have moved without thinking. In an instant, he’d snatched his hand back, and the alpha was on his feet. The movement made Stiles rock backwards, and he almost tumbled over.

Derek caught him with a growl and set him back on his feet.

His touch  _ bunt _ .

‘You’re so clumsy,’ Derek said.

‘You knocked me over!’

Even in the low light, Derek’s ears were pink.

He smelled like dry earth after the rain. Stiles had always loved that scent. They stood, at an impasse, for a long moment, and then the alpha dropped him, and without another word was gone.

With the blanket.

Stiles stared at the place where he'd been, then threw his hands up and set to tidying his stacks of books. 

Derek had, apparently, been reading  _ Meadowsweet Manor _ , a truly ridiculous romantic drama set in the plains of the north west, not so very far from Hale.

It was Stiles’ favourite book. Maybe he’d seen how dog-earred it was and assumed the reader had good taste?

When Stiles returned the next evening,  _ Meadowsweet _ had been ever-so-subtly moved. Derek had apparently been back.

Stiles read his own book for a bit, then carefully left  _ Meadowsweet _ and its sequel next to each other on the sofa.

Both were gone the next day. Derek had borrowed them, he was sure.

Stiles responded by leaving a gift of a small bottle of sleeping tonic, along with instructions, and a few leftover cookies from the infirmary.

Annabel made the best cookies.

Stiles had no idea what possessed him to expend so much energy on the alpha. He was attracted to him, certainly, but Stiles had been attracted to myriad people before and never felt any urge to act like such an idiot.

He knew that Derek was responsible for his wolf pack, and for all Halean citizens. Soon, he’d be forced into courtly life - there was no way out of it, particularly as Hale, like all duchies, needed a nursery full of heirs to be secure.

The truth was that Stiles felt sorry for him. He’d never admit it, certainly not to Derek himself. But Stiles was a healer, and he had seen a deep wound in the Duke.

He set about healing it, without magick or potions. He prescribed acts of kindness, and even as he didn’t see Derek about the palace, he saw evidence that his gifts were accepted.

He didn’t see Derek, but in the meantime, he suddenly couldn’t be free of wolves.

First, the day after the altercation in the library, was Isaac de Lahey. 

Isaac appeared at Stiles’ elbow while he was in the stables, checking on his favourite farm-cat, Fat Cat.

‘That’s a fat cat!’ Isaac exclaimed cheerfully.

Stiles about jumped out of his skin. Fat Cat probably would have, too, if she wasn’t  _ huge,  _ and therefore didn’t care to move.

‘She’s pregnant,’ Stiles managed.

‘Awww! Kittens!’

Stiles squinted at the Lieutenant. ‘Isaac, can I help you?’

‘No, thank you - just wanted to check in. Are you here alone?’

His tone was overly cheerful. Stiles narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Well, there are soldiers about, and you’re… an omega?’

Stiles glared at him. ‘ _ You’re _ an omega, Isaac.’

Isaac turned bright red and hissed: ‘shut up!’ Then, he blanched. ‘Oh, my gods - Your Highness, I didn’t-’

‘It’s alright.’ Stiles petted Fat Cat one last time and straightened up. ‘Did Lord Hale tell you to look out for me?’

Isaac immediately looked guilty. ‘Kind of? But also, you smell…’

He trailed off, helpless, his eyes pleading.

Stiles sighed. ‘I smell?’

‘Yousmellgood,’ Isaac said in a rush. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

Stiles blinked. He wanted to inspect that closer, but then Annabel returned from her brief mission to collect cream from the dairy, and she and Isaac were staring at each other, both of them red-faced.

‘My brave Lieutenant,’ she breathed. ‘How are you healing?’

The two of them shadowed Stiles through his morning routine. Around lunchtime, Isaac was greeted by a tall, dark-skinned beta man he introduced as Boyd.

Isaac left to fetch them all some lunch, and Boyd stayed, quiet and oddly soothing in his presence. He was surprisingly useful in Stiles’ workshop, knowing plenty of ingredients by sight and happily taking any task he was assigned, sitting reading a little book when he wasn’t needed.

Stiles liked Boyd. If the wolf ever had an interest in herbology, Stiles would be willing to teach him, which was… unusual. Stiles generally hated people other than Annabel hanging around his work.

The next day, Isaac found Stiles in the infirmary, and introduced him to a stunning blonde beta woman named Erica.

Erica seemed to lack the boundaries of her packmates. She merrily chatted to Stiles, Annabel, their patients and anyone who drifted into their orbit all day long. She rubbed her cheek against Stiles’, wrapped an arm around his waist, and generally exhibited all the respect for personal boundaries of a housecat.

The day after that, Isaac was nowhere to be seen, but two terrifyingly lovely beta woman who smelled faintly of Derek showed up outside the King’s chambers and gave the briefest of greetings - their names given as Cora and Malia respectively - before proceeding to shadow Stiles through a full day in the life of an acting-regent.

They followed him through the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, a budget meeting with the treasury and, finally, to a formal dinner, where they stood against the wall and glared daggers at Stiles’ suitors.

They were astonishingly successful at driving away unwanted attention. At the end of the night, each of them wrapped him in a surprising hug, their cheeks rubbing against his, and gave him smiles that lit up their pretty faces and made them look very young and slightly less scary.

Annabel was, at first, made deeply nervous by all the new wolves, but she quickly relaxed. Her heroes happily answered her myriad questions, and on the final day, Malia even gave her a quick hug, nipping gently at her throat.

‘They accept me,’ Annabel breathed. ‘Do you think… Sire, I could be  _ pack _ .’

‘You’d have to win over their alpha.’

‘Could you ask him?’

‘Bel, what makes you think he’d listen to me?’

She shot him a look. ‘Sire, he… do you really not know? Why do you think the pack has been following us all week?’

‘Because he told them to keep an eye on me? He has some weird thing about violence against omegas, Bel, and he thinks I’m just the sort of idiot to fall headlong into danger.’

‘Well,’ Annabel snorted, ‘he’s not alone in that. Just… if you get a chance, could you ask him? I think I’d like Hale. It’s supposed to be so pretty there.’

Stiles’ stomach turned at the idea of losing her. They’d been companions for years.

But he wanted her to be happy, and he nodded, before returning his focus to the report of troops disbanding in the west.

A foot servant knocked on the door and Stiles looked up, exasperated - he had enough trouble focusing as it was, without these distractions.

‘Your Highness, the Duke of Doria is in the main courtyard and begs your… attention.’

Stiles blinked. ‘My attention?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Stiles considered. ‘It’s Liesel, isn’t it? You helped me move those chairs in the Queen’s chambers a few weeks ago.’

Liesel seemed surprised to be recognised, but nodded. Stiles took a deep breath. ‘Liesel, I have no intention of answering a summons from an idiot like Lord Doria without good reason. Can you please tell me what this is about?’

Liesel coloured prettily, the faint scent of discomfited omega in the air as she shuffled from foot to foot. 

‘It’s a courting gift, sire. A big one. He… I think he wants everyone to see.’

Stiles dropped his head to the table, pounded it against the wood three times, then sprung to his feet. ‘Annabel, with me. Liesel, thank you, sweetling. You’ve been a great help.’

He stormed to the main palace doors, and waited patiently for a footman to open them. Annabel, at his side, was watching him nervously.

The Duke of Doria was famously beautiful, fabulously wealthy, and desperately charming.

He was also a lowlife cad with all the intelligence of a shoe.

As evidenced by his choice of courting gift.

A courting gift, if accepted, was the first stage of a formal engagement. It ought to be thoughtful, heartfelt. A sign that you knew your mate, that you were compatible.

It was not supposed to be - Stiles did a quick head-count -  _ twelve  _ identical white Dorian stallions.

Each horse was held by a Dorian Cavalryman. Stiles recognised some of them from his infirmary - one of them, a sweet-faced beta woman, gave a weak little wave. 

At their head, Lord Doria stood, holding the bridle of a particularly mean-looking animal, beaming at the audience that had formed.

Stiles stood at the top of the stairs, looking out over the courtyard, waiting for quiet. In the crowd he saw the Halean wolves, all of them oddly sweaty and in various states of undress - had this spectacle interrupted some kind of training session?

This theory was confirmed when, from the direction of the barracks, Scott and Derek appeared. Both were shirtless - Derek  _ spectacularly _ so - and covered in sweat and dust.

Scott was so filthy the people around him didn’t seem to recognise their King.

Stiles smiled at him. Scott loved it when that happened.

Lord Doria apparently thought the smile was for him.

‘My prince! My sweet omega, I have brought you a courting gift of the finest steeds Doria has to offer. They will bear you to your new home, just as you will bear the heirs of our fair duchy!’

_ Ew _ . Stiles saw Scott wrinkle his nose in distaste, and felt a sudden, deep love for his brother.

If Stiles’ brother - if his  _ king _ \- had been a different man, Stiles would have felt compelled to accept this bullshit proposal. On paper, Doria was an ideal mate: a perfect, advantageous match.

His gaze fell on Derek. He was glorious in the afternoon sun, his skin glistening. His expression was hard to discern - so much gods-damned  _ hair _ \- but he was clearly listening intently.

‘Why horses?’ Stiles asked. The courtyard went very quiet.

Lord Doria opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. ‘You love horses!’

‘I love  _ my _ horse,’ Stiles snapped.

His horse was an asshole. Stiles was obsessed with her.

‘I-... Doria…’

‘Doria is indeed beautiful. These animals are indeed magnificent. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a mate, my lord. I regret it cannot be me.’

Doria’s expression clouded even as his face flushed dark red. He dropped the reigns in his grip and took a step forward, up the stairs.

‘My prince-’

‘This conversation is over, Lord Doria,’ Stiles said.

The Duke climbed the stairs, his expression dark. At Stiles’ side, Annabel stiffened, ready to defend him.

‘You do not wish to humiliate me in public,’ he said, low.

‘You humiliated yourself with this display,’ Stiles shot back. ‘You sought to bully me into accepting, by being so public and so brash. I will not be bullied, my lord.’

‘You won’t get a better offer,’ Doria hissed, close enough now that the crowd was clearly getting uncomfortable.

Stiles was beloved - he knew this without vanity, because the feeling was mutual. Stiles’ mother had been a darling of the people, and Stiles had fought to live up to her legacy. 

Lord Doria… had soldiers who were beloved. The man himself wasn’t well known at court - his mother had passed the title to him during the war - and if he attempted to do anything to Stiles, he’d regret it.

A very large, very shirtless man was suddenly at Stiles’ side.

Or, slightly in front of him. Directly between Stiles and Lord Doria.

Stiles peered around Lord Hale’s body at Doria.

‘You’ll still your tongue if you wish to keep it, Doria,’ Derek said.

Lord Doria looked momentarily taken aback, and then sneered. ‘I don’t take orders from dogs, Hale. Look at you - you’re an animal. Do you fancy yourself enamoured with this little omega? He needs someone who can teach him manners, not a half-savage man from the back end of nowhere.’

Stiles sighed, stepped around Derek, and spoke words of power, gathering his magick around him. Then, he cast a spell.

Lord Doria recognised his mistake just as his voice went silent. He gasped, one hand reaching for Stiles, for mercy or revenge Stiles would never know because Annabel dragged him backwards.

‘When you’re ready to bloody apologise to us both you can  _ write it down _ , asshole!’ Stiles yelled, as Scott arrived at his and Annabel’s side and got both of them indoors.

The courtyard, beyond the doors, exploded into applause.

‘Did you have to humiliate him like that? Scott asked, panting.

‘You didn’t hear what he said to me. To Derek.’

Scott raised an eyebrow. ‘ _ Lord Hale _ ,’ he said, deliberately, ‘can hold his own.’

_ He can’t _ , Stiles wanted to yell.  _ He’s gentle on the inside. He’s still healing _ .

Instead, he snapped: ‘Doria is a child. He needs to learn some fucking decorum.’

‘Doria controls resources Beacon needs, Stiles. I can strongarm him if he tries to withhold them over this, but I really would rather I don’t have to.’

‘You’re his king. Pull rank if you have to. I outrank him, Scott, omega or not, and he insulted me in public. I have every right to defend myself, and my position in this court. I am his  _ prince _ .’

Scott opened his mouth, then shut it with a  _ clack _ and a sigh. The doors opened again, and Derek ducked in, along with Erica and Malia.

Malia handed the Duke a shirt, which he pulled absently over his head. It did little for Stiles’ sanity.

‘You muted him!’ Erica said with glee. ‘I think I love you, Highness.’

Stiles pulled a face at her, and she laughed, quickly crossing to his side and rubbing her cheek against his. Stiles glanced at Derek’s face - he looked hilariously surprised by his packmate’s behaviour.

‘Are you alright, though?’ Malia asked. ‘That looked… uncomfortable.’

‘I’m fine. It… happens.’

‘That happens?’ Derek echoed, horrified. ‘Alphas… do  _ that _ to you?’

‘Well, not that, exactly. But the general theme is the same. “Here you go, now act grateful that I deigned to ask” sort of thing.’

Derek growled, low, in the back of his throat. Stiles found it… oddly comforting.

‘It’s ok, big guy. Thanks for coming to my rescue and everything, but I can take care of myself.’

Malia looked like all her Yuletides had arrived at once. She grinned at the alpha.

‘ _ Big guy _ ?’ she repeated.

‘Shut up,’ Derek said, off-hand and without malice.

Scott made a sad little noise. ‘If Lord Doria doesn’t apologise within a seven-night, you need to reverse that spell, Stiles.’

‘Sure, Scotty.’ Stiles met Malia’s gaze and shook his head, mouthing:  _ no freaking way _ .

‘Stiles, I can still see you! Urgh, I don’t have time for this. You all live your drama, I have a mate to see to.’

Scott stormed off. Stiles yelled after him: ‘give my love to Kira!’

He stood, with the four wolves, in silence for a moment, and then Malia was at his side, nudging Erica away and wrapping Stiles in her arms, scenting him enthusiastically. Erica, for her part, simply turned her affections on Annabel.

Derek watched all this with astonishment.

‘Your wolves have been all over me, all week,’ Stiles said. ‘Could you  _ please _ tell them that I’m perfectly safe with just Annabel? I don’t need a wolfpack escort everywhere I go, generous as it was for you to send them after me.’

‘Derek didn’t send us,’ Malia said in a purr against Stiles’ neck. He awkwardly patted her back, and she  _ chuffed _ happily.

‘Isaac said you’d let us stay, if we came to visit.’

‘Well, of course, but-’

‘Are they really bothering you?’ Derek asked.

He said it like it was important. Like he needed an answer, desperately.

‘Not really? I mostly didn’t like having more bodyguards, but if they’re just sort of… hanging out, it’s not that big a deal.’

Derek gave him a tiny smile. ‘They’ll grow on you, my prince. I promise. Malia, Erica - please just… reign it in?’

Erica snickered, and even Malia seemed amused, pulling away from Stiles long enough to gently butt her head against Annabel’s, who was clearly delighted.

The wolves gathered, but before they left, Derek hung back.

‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ he said.

Stiles laughed. ‘It’s truly fine, my lord. I’m sorry he said those things to you. Not a word of them was true.’

Derek hesitated, then said, firmly: ‘Derek. Not  _ my lord _ .’ A pause, then: ‘you love your horse?’

Stiles’ smile grew. ‘She’s the worst. You’d like her.’

‘We could go riding.’

Stiles blinked at the alpha, surprised, and saw Derek’s ears go that fascinating shade of pink.

‘If you don’t want to, I-’

‘When?’

Derek’s smile was like sunshine. ‘Tomorrow? After breakfast?’

Stiles could think of ten things he was supposed to do in that window, and not one of them felt important at all in comparison.

‘Absolutely. I want to hear all your  _ Meadowsweet _ theories.’

Derek’s ears flushed darker. Stiles wanted to bite them.

‘Tomorrow, then.’ Before Stiles could react, the Duke of Hale had grabbed his hand and pressed an awkward, dry kiss to his knuckles. ‘Farewell, my prince.’

In a heartbeat, Stiles and Annabel were alone in the hall.

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘your life is exhausting.’

It was a sentiment she repeated the next day, as she sat on the foot of his bed, kindly averting her eyes as he pulled on breeches beneath his riding robes. He would be  _ damned _ if he had to ride side-saddle in front of an actual war hero.

‘Exhausting,’ she sighed. ‘Sire, this is the third outfit you’ve tried on. What does it matter what you wear?’

Stiles glared at her. ‘I want to look nice.’

‘He thought you looked nice in your infirmary uniform. He won’t  _ care _ , sire.’

Stiles felt his face flush. He wasn’t certain at what point Annabel had realised that he was… interested in the Duke.

He just knew it was both a relief to have a confidant and annoying as hell.

He pulled the long end of the skirt over his shoulder and secured it at the opposite hip with a brooch. The colour was a vivid green, shot through with gold thread.

Stiles glared down at it, realising he’d picked it thinking of the Duke’s stupid eyes.

‘You don’t have time to change again,’ Annabel said quickly. ‘He won’t notice.’

Stiles sighed. ‘Is he courting me, Bel?’

She laughed. ‘He asked you to ride with him, and kissed you.’

‘On the  _ hand _ . I kiss old people on the  _ hand _ .’

Annabel snickered. ‘Sire, he was so dumbfounded the first time he caught your scent I thought he was going to faint.’

Stiles thought back to that first day, in the infirmary. Derek’s expression, his blown pupils…

‘Is scent… is it important to wolves?’

Annabel’s smile turned sly. ‘Ah, sire. That’s a good question.’

‘Bel…’ Stiles shook his head and sighed. ‘Isaac wears a scent-masking charm.’

His friend went very still. ‘He… what?’

‘He’s an omega. My guess is that he didn’t want to let his packmates go to war without him, so he’s been masquerading as a beta.’ He shot her a look. ‘So, if scent means something to wolves, what does that mean to you?’

Her expression turned to something he’d never seen on her before. Serious, covetous. ‘It means he’s  _ mine _ .’ She stood. ‘C’mon, sire. We’ve both got males to claim.’

_ Claim _ . That word echoed through Stiles’ head as they made their way down through the palace to the stables.

He imagined, in a way he’d rarely allowed himself to before, the act of claiming. The final stage of the mating ritual, when his alpha would take him to their chambers and…

In his head, before, it had always been a passive act, without much to recommend it to him. He didn’t want to lie back while some male rutted atop him, victorious.

He let himself imagine, for a brief, heart-pounding moment, staking his own claim on his alpha. Making them shiver, helpless, beneath him.

He knew whose strong, corded throat he was imagining beneath his teeth, whose strong hands held his hips.

When he finally caught sight of the Duke, he fell over.

It all happened humiliatingly fast. They rounded the corner of the keep, Stiles saw Lord Hale, and then he was tripping, landing in the dirt with a  _ thud _ .

Derek was at his side so fast Stiles’ head spun, and he tried to focus on organising the ridiculous fabric of his ensemble, because he felt his face burning and he couldn’t look at Derek’s stupid face.

The Duke had finally been to a barber. And Stiles had been absolutely right: that was a riot-causing face.

His hair had been cut short and lay, thick and ink-black against his head. His beard was gone, leaving a faint shadow in its place, and even his stupid, beautiful, expressive eyebrows had been tidied up by some kind soul with an appreciation for sculpture.

‘Stiles,’ the Duke gasped, ‘gods, are you alright?’

‘I’m fine, just… embarrassed.’

Derek gathered him up like he weighed nothing, and  _ wow _ , that was… a lot.

Once he got Stiles vertical, Derek’s hands stayed on his waist, his eyes roaming Stiles’ face as if checking for damage.

Gods, he smelled good.

‘You shaved,’ Stiles managed.

Derek smiled and rubbed one hand self-consciously along his jaw. ‘I realised I looked like a mountain-man.’

‘It wasn’t a bad look.’

Derek’s eyes flashed. ‘Is this better?’

‘Well. Don’t get a big head, but you literally knocked me off my feet, so…’

Derek’s smile looked out of practice. It was like the sun.

Stiles couldn’t wait to make him do it again.

Derek’s eyes dropped to Stiles’ throat, and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. Stiles thought of the other wolves, and how they greeted him, and before he had a chance to second-guess the impulse, he breached the small gap between them and rubbed his cheek lightly against Derek’s.

Derek whimpered. That was the only word Stiles could use to describe the sound the wolf made - it wasn’t entirely human. Derek’s hands tightened on his waist, and then he was pulled against a very warm, very hard torso, and Derek’s face was buried in his neck.

It… wasn’t a kiss. It was somehow less than a kiss and far more.

Derek breathed against Stiles’ neck, breaking him out in goosebumps, and held him like he was both very delicate and absolutely vital.

Without thinking, Stiles raised his own hands. One, he pressed to Derek’s side, to the ribs he’d healed so recently.

The other, he stroked over the newly shorn hair at the base of Derek’s skull. It was strangely soft.

Annabel cleared her throat. ‘Your Grace,’ she said to Derek, sternly, ‘if you scent him any harder, humans will be able to smell you on him.’

Derek grumbled - Stiles felt it in his  _ toes _ \- but dutifully pulled away and took a staggering step backwards.

Stiles wanted to cry at the loss.

‘Are you here to chaperone?’ Derek asked, his voice a little rough. He coughed, then added: ‘I asked Isaac to join us in that capacity.’

Annabel perked right up. ‘Is he here?’

‘He’s readying the horses.’ Derek shot Stiles a look. ‘When you said your horse is the worst…’

‘Oh, I meant it.’ Stiles grinned. ‘Bel, could you go help our Lieutenant, please?’

She scurried off, Stiles’ honour apparently forgotten. Derek chivalrously offered Stiles his arm - although it might have been a preventative strategy to keep him from falling again - and they followed.

Derek cleared his throat. ‘I like the stable cat.’

‘Fat Cat,’ Stiles said. ‘She’s due any day now, but if I’m honest, she was fat before, too. She’s everyone’s favourite, so everyone sneaks her scraps.’

‘Will you keep one of the kittens?’

Stiles considered the question. ‘I’d like to, but it’s hard to keep a cat in the palace. There’s so much going on, all the time - I’d be worried it would run away and get hurt.’

Derek got a strange expression. ‘Hale Hall is smaller,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’d think it’s hopelessly provincial.’

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. ‘I hate the palace.’

Derek actually laughed at that, shooting Stiles a small, private smile. ‘Really?’

‘Court life in general, to be honest. A small stronghold sounds much more my speed - I could learn all the staff’s names, for a start. I always feel so rude when I don’t know the person serving me.’

In the stables, the horses were ready, and Isaac and Annabel led them out, both of them already mounted.

Derek lifted Stiles into the saddle with ease. His hands lingered at his waist, and then he mounted his own steed, and they set off for the royal park.

Isaac and Annabel quickly fell behind. Derek glanced back at them, then urged his mount to Stiles’ side.

‘Your wolf likes mine,’ he said, and Stiles chuckled.

‘She’d like him more if he would let me lift that spell,’ he replied. ‘How did you even manage that?’

‘Our old emissary, Deaton, performed it. Isaac couldn’t bear to be left behind while we fought for Beacon. We did it to protect him - soldiers, away from home, can be… badly behaved.’

Derek’s expression went dark. Again, Stiles wondered what kind of violence he’d seen. In general, violence against birth-givers - female betas and both male and female omegas - was considered the lowest act, the most unconscionable.

In war, though, things… happened. Stiles failed to suppress a shiver, and Derek nudged his leg with his own.

‘Why did he want to fight?’

Derek was quiet for a moment, then said: ‘his father arranged for him to be mated young. His mate was… cruel. He managed to send a letter to my sister, Laura, and she fetched him home.’

Stiles felt sick. ‘Is he still mated?’

‘He’s a widower.’ A pause, then: ‘Laura made sure of that. Does that… shock you?’

Stiles stared at his knuckles, white on the reigns. Most alphas would have spared him the truth, and he knew Derek was leaving out the gory details, but he still was strangely grateful for Derek’s decision not to sugar-coat it.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said. ‘I’m glad Isaac had someone to fight for him.’

Derek’s smile was small and humourless. ‘Laura was always like that. She wanted to lead Hale into battle, when the war began, but my mother and I talked her out of it. She was the alpha-heir, she had to stay home, and Cora and I took our pack to war. We thought it would be safer. For Hale. For our family. 

‘Then the Argents decided that Hale was a strategic stronghold, and they… they killed my parents, and Laura, and made themselves at home in their beds.’

Stiles knew how that ended. Annabel had told him the story, of the pack’s daring return home, of the Argent assassinations and the reclamation of Hale. It had been brave, and foolish, and, as he now understood, utterly justified.

‘Cora’s your sister,’ Stiles said, because he didn’t know what else to say. ‘I thought she might be. Those cheekbones.’

Derek breathed out a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Stiles, I… I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I wanted today to be… good.’

Stiles reached over and prodded the alpha gently in the ribs, making him start, then smile.

‘Hey, don’t do that. I wanted to get to know you, that’s what we’re doing. I’m having a great time.’ They rode in silence for a beat, but it didn’t feel awkward - there was a warm companionship to it. ‘Would you… I’d like to know about Laura. If you’d like to talk about her.’

For a horrible second, Stiles thought he’d overstepped, then Derek sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.

‘My pack never mentions her. They don’t want to upset me, but… I miss her. It hurts to think of her, but it’s a good kind of hurt.’

And then he was talking. Haltingly, in his own, succinct style. Stiles had to trust his horse not to crash into anything because he needed his whole attention focused on Derek’s eyebrows, which seemed to him to communicate the wolf’s deepest emotions. 

Like angry, psychic little caterpillars.

Derek told Stiles about Hale. About his love for the land, his connection to it, and how he and his sisters had explored every inch of their duchy on foot and on horseback. He described Laura - bossy, strong-willed and charming - and their mother, who was formidable and taciturn but so, so loving. His father, his omega parent, had been silly, gentle, and sharp as a whip.

‘Hale needs an omega like that,’ Derek said, with a brief glance at Stiles. ‘Someone who understands economics and social systems. My father began the work of modernising Hale, of changing our social structure to support wolves and other beings alike, but he died long before his work was done.’

Stiles felt butterflies and tried, desperately, to tamp down his excitement, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

‘My father loved children,’ Derek continued. ‘He opened schools and children’s homes. Places built like wolf packs - little communities, with only a few more children than adults, so the orphans would have a sense of family.’

‘That’s why, in Brishen…’

Derek smiled ruefully. ‘That’s one reason, I suppose. At the time I was running on zero sleep and pure adrenaline. All I know is that for some reason, when I realised the troops weren’t coming back for those children, I just… snapped. I should have died there. I was ready to die. People paint me as some kind of hero for it, it wasn’t strategic, I didn’t think I could save them. I just… I wasn’t going to let them die alone.’

Stiles reached between their two mounts and took Derek’s hand. He threaded their fingers together - it was awkward, with the shifting bodies of the horses, but he didn’t mind.

‘I like the sound of your dad,’ he said, trying to keep his tone even.

‘He would have loved you,’ Derek said, suddenly, emphatically. When Stiles glanced over, his face was bright red. ‘They all would. Cora loves you. And Malia - she’s my cousin, did I tell you that?’

‘That’s... ‘ Stiles breathed. ‘Thank you.’

He hoped his sincerity shone through. By the look on Derek’s face, it did.

‘Sire!’ Annabel called out. Stiles turned in the saddle to see that she and Isaac had been joined by a royal-liveried guard. ‘Sire, it’s the Queen.’

Stiles blanched, dropped Derek’s hand, and urged his horse back to her side. He was there in seconds. ‘Is she alright?’

‘Yes, sire,’ the guard said. ‘But the baby is coming, and she’s asking for you.’

Derek joined them. ‘Go,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Stiles replied. ‘I really have had a good time. Are you going to be at the ball?’

Derek hesitated, then Isaac elbowed him in the ribs, and he flushed before saying: ‘yes, if you will.’

‘Good.’ Stiles smiled at him. ‘Save me a dance?’

And he turned and urged his mount into a wild canter back towards the palace, a huge, idiotic grin on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a ball, a gift of note, and an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've loved your comments so much, keep them coming! Thank you for being patient with my extravagant and nonsensical world-building under lockdown :P

Stiles attended his first ball as an eligible omega at the age of fourteen.

It was an unmitigated disaster. The colour of his robes was all wrong - a golden yellow that made him look bilious - and he ripped his hem making his grand entrance down the stairs, winding up clutching his father’s elbow helplessly to avoid tumbling headlong down the stairs.

He trod on his dance partners’ feet. He managed to spill red wine on his alpha sister Lydia’s tunic, when she was trying to impress the islander Princess who would shortly become her mate.

He also, unwittingly, infuriated his beta brother Jackson by monopolising a girl Jackson had his eye on.

They’d had a very pleasant conversation about crop rotation in her mother’s duchy, Serafin. Jackson had retaliated as only an eighteen-year-old asshole can, by setting Stiles’ robe on fire.

Stiles’ and Jackson’s relationship was definitely improved since he’d moved three kingdoms away to marry. His new wife’s position was extremely politically important, and her personality was extremely unpleasant.

Stiles wondered, sometimes, if Jackson was some kind of demon changeling, dumped into their family to try their collective patience.

So, the evening had been a disaster. But he’d still had alphas, for the first time in his life, paying him attention. A few who not-so-subtly enquired as to his preference of courting gift, others who held his waist too firmly and said creepy things about his lips, his moles, his fingers.

Stiles had completely failed to act like a well-bred omega, and they had still wanted him.

‘They don’t give a shit about me,’ he’d said to his oldest brother, Scott, at the end of the night, as they traded swigs from a bottle of wine and watched the sun rise. ‘They just want the Beacon omega prince. I hate being the only birth-giver in our generation.’

Scott, drunk as hell, had nodded thoughtfully, then toppled over. From his new, reclined position, he said: ‘I’ll never make you get mated, bro. Let me and Lydia and Jackson make the political matches. You just… find someone who gets you. Who  _ loves _ you.’

Stiles had stiffened. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I  _ do _ . I’ll be king someday. I’ll be the boss of you.’ Scott paused, considering that. ‘I want to be the  _ last _ boss of you. Your mate should be your friend. Like-’

‘Gods, Scott, I don’t have the energy to hear you wax lyrical about Kira.’

Scott had sighed, happily. ‘You’ll get it someday, bro. When you find someone you think is just…  _ fascinating _ .’

That… was a big word for Stiles’ brother. He’d remembered it.

At fifteen, he’d managed to push a pyramid of shrimp into the moat.

At sixteen, he’d actually landed an alpha male in the infirmary with what the healer described as ‘thoroughly bruised bollocks’.

That was the year he’d started volunteering in the infirmary. It was also the year the war started in earnest, rather than just looming on the horizon, making Scott’s eyes grow dark.

It was the year their father died, suddenly and without warning, and Scott was crowned the king of a nation fighting for its life against a vicious invading army.

There was no summer ball the year Stiles was seventeen. There were bloody losses on every front, and the loss of key strongholds along two borders to the Argents, including Hale Hall. Stiles patched up soldiers with wounds too gruesome to continue fighting, but not quite enough to kill them, and Scott grew up, fast.

Scott never tried to stop Stiles from helping people, though he did insist on gifting his little brother Annabel’s services. He understood that Stiles’ work was how Stiles fought for Beacon, just as Jackson and Lydia sent troops from their new homelands to reinforce the front, just as Scott himself spurned sleep and rarely saw his wife or baby daughter.

Kira and Scott’s little princess was an alpha, thank gods, an heir, to show the world that their line would continue. She was also sickly, and no one could know, so Stiles found himself taking on the role of a king-mate in wartime while Kira focused on the child.

The year Stiles was eighteen, it became clear that Princess Gwyn would live, and Kira returned to her duties. With the war dragging on, Stiles had more patients than ever before, but he still felt the loss of the work he’d been raised to do: that of the mate to a powerful alpha.

It was the year he accepted that he couldn’t live the rest of his life as a spinster in Scott’s court. It had seemed the most attractive option, when he was younger, but watching Kira blossom into a queen and mother worthy of both titles…

He was jealous, and he knew that his remaining at court would always undermine her. He loved her and his brother too much to do that to them.

So, that year, he attended the small, muted ball they threw to let the nobility know it was business as usual. The war might be draining their resources - there might be glaringly obvious absences of second-borns lost to the front lines - but they could still throw a good party.

He met a soft-spoken alpha woman, a baroness of an allied kingdom, and thought,  _ maybe _ . When she returned to the frontline, he wrote her letters, and her replies made him laugh.

She died two months later, heroically and tragically, and Stiles’ grief was that of loss, not of a broken heart.

He thought he might be a little broken, inside. His attraction to the alphas he met never seemed to coincide with his affection for them. 

The year Stiles was nineteen, he was… excited for the ball.

For the first time, ever.

He thought that, even if he fell down the stairs and broke his nose, Derek de Hale would probably still be nice to him.

_ That _ was kind of miraculous.

His main issue, the day of the ball, was that Kira was still in bed with her new baby boy, a perfect little nugget Stiles had persuaded her not to name after him, because… no kid deserved that.

Instead, Stiles suggested Noah, to honour the late king.

And Kira had burst into hormonal tears. It had taken a few minutes to understand that they were  _ happy _ tears.

She’d always liked her father-in-law.

So, Stiles was happy for her, but it meant his usual go-to omega stylist was out of the picture, and Annabel was less than useless, mooning about Isaac and bemoaning the fact that he apparently wasn’t ready to remove his scent-masking glamour.

Stiles stood in the royal dressmaker’s studio, getting pinned up in fabric a colour he was absolutely  _ not sure about _ , while Annabel reclined on a chaise-longue and bitched.

He bit his tongue, wanting to yell at her that Isaac might never be ready, because that would raise more questions, and that wasn’t his story to tell.

‘You need to be patient, Bel. Show him you can listen when he speaks.’

She deflated. ‘I know, sire, it’s just… how can I know for sure, if he won’t get rid of it?’ She paused, then: ‘brown? Really?’

The dressmaker glared. ‘It’s bronze,’ she spat. ‘It matches his eyes.’

‘I don’t think anyone dresses to match brown eyes,’ Annabel said thoughtfully. ‘He looks like a shiny stick.’

Stiles sighed. ‘Mistress Seamstress, could we please try something else?’

The seamstress’ gaze softened. She’d dressed Stiles since he was a boy.

He struggled to say no to her. He was half-convinced she was colour-blind.

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

She scuttled off, and Stiles turned to Annabel. ‘What do you mean, “know for sure”? You like him, don’t you?’

‘Sire, it’s different for alpha wolves. We mate for  _ life _ .’ She sighed melodramatically. ‘My mama told me she knew she loved my mother the second she caught her scent. Your mate is supposed to smell like  _ home  _ and  _ forever _ , and I’ve been dreaming of it… since I can remember.’

Stiles blinked at her. ‘You can’t mean… like love at first sight?’

‘First  _ scent _ ,’ Annabel corrected. ‘C’mon, sire, you’re a sorcerer. You know that wolves are like, 30 percent each of human, wolf and magick.’

‘I seriously question your maths,’ Stiles said absently. ‘Does that happen… a lot?’

‘ _ No _ ,’ Annabel insisted. ‘Everyone has a soulmate, alpha wolves can just… find them easier, I guess? Lots of alpha wolves never find their true mate. It’s luck! Or fate. Something like that.’

Stiles was reminded, forcibly, of the day he’d first seen Derek. Of the alpha’s shell-shocked expression and flared nostrils.

His stomach squirmed and he pressed one hand to his belly.

‘And omegas?’ Stiles managed.

‘Omegas aren’t the same. It’s a defensive measure, I think. I mean, an omega has a lot more to lose if they bond to the wrong person. So, the alpha senses the bond, then they court the omega.’

‘But… how does the omega know they’re being sincere? That sounds like a pretty convenient way to get in an omega’s pants.’

Annabel gave him a startled look. ‘Gods, being an omega is a nightmare, isn’t it?’

‘You’ve no idea.’ 

The seamstress shuffled back in and started to unpin him from the bronze monstrosity, so Annabel politely turned around.

‘I mean, on one hand, to wolves, the bond is sacred. It’s too rare and too precious not to be. Also, the pack senses the bond too, especially if the alpha is the pack-alpha.’

‘The pack alpha?’

Annabel made a frustrated noise. ‘Like, if I was in the Hale pack, I’d just be another pack member, even though I’m an alpha. The pack-alpha is like Lord Hale - they’re in charge of the pack. Like the head of the family.’

‘Ok. So you think you sense a bond with Isaac, and you think the Hale pack feel it too, because they’re being sweet to you, but you can’t tell for sure because his scent is masked.’

Annabel stiffened, then nodded, her back still to Stiles. 

‘If omegas have to take a leap of faith, Bel, you can, too. Prove to him you’re brave, and you like him. Show him you have faith.’

She turned around, her skin pink, and was greeted by the sight of a half-dressed Stiles in a shimmering, opalescent blue-pink silk.

‘Oh, that’s pretty,’ she said, softly. She met his gaze. ‘You don’t think he should take off the glamour?’

‘I think it’s entirely his choice, Bel. You might not understand, but I do - that glamour makes him feel safe, and it lets him fight alongside the rest of his pack. You’re asking him to give up a lot, and you’re not giving him much of a reason to trust you, if you can’t decide if you like him without his omega-scent.’

‘When did you get wise, little princeling?’ she asked, after a long, heavy pause. Stiles laughed as the seamstress wrapped silver bells around his waist and placed a circlet of silver leaves in his hair. ‘You’re beautiful, sire. He’s not going to know what hit him.’

Stiles gave a strangled laugh. ‘Now that Lord Hale’s cleaned up a bit, he’ll have his pick of any omega at court. Maybe he’ll realise he’s got better options.’

Annabel smiled, her eyes misty. ‘I don’t think so, Sire.’

The outfit decided upon, Stiles was accosted by a coven of maids who scrubbed his skin until it was raw and messed about with his hair, trying to make it look less… fluffy.

By the time he met Scott at the top of the ballroom staircase, ready to make their entrance, Stiles was certain that he’d never looked better.

He was also absolutely terrified. He had the worst luck with this sort of thing.

‘Calm down,’ Scott said, when Stiles rounded the corner and almost collided with him. ‘It’s going to be  _ fine _ .’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I do, Stiles. I know you look great, and we’re all here to celebrate. It’s going to be fun!’

Stiles looked at his older brother. He’d… forgotten what Scott looked like, when he had had enough sleep, when he was happy and content.

Stiles deflated and took a deep breath. ‘Yeah. You’re right. C’mon, Scotty - this is your victory lap.’

Scott smiled tightly. ‘I don’t know how to rule in peacetime.’

‘You’ll do great. You’ve got Kira - the two of you will work it out.’

‘I know, I just… I’m gonna miss you, bro.’

Stiles blinked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Scott chuckled. ‘I’m not an idiot, Stiles. I guess I should be grateful you’ll still be in Beacon. Hale isn’t so far away - we can visit you when court is out of session.’

Stiles felt his skin burn with embarrassment, but he had nothing to say to that. He grabbed Scott’s arm.

‘Escort me in before I change my mind, idiot.’

‘That’s  _ King _ Idiot, to you,’ Scott laughed, but with grace that never ceased to surprise Stiles, he acquiesced.

The ballroom was beautiful, the light of an evening summer sky muted and casting an orange glow across the candle-lit proceedings. The musicians silenced at the sight of Scott, and as the usher announced them, Stiles looked out and took it all in.

He had known most of these people since birth, but there were a few new faces - lesser nobility thrust into new positions by the war, or new mates brought to court for the first time.

He spotted Derek and Lady Cora immediately, because they were the centre of a mob of omegas.

It would have been enough to bruise Stiles’ ego, except…

Except Cora was elbowing her brother in the ribs, and Derek was turning to the staircase so quickly he must have hurt his neck.

And he looked at Stiles like he had that first day, shocked and overwhelmed, except this time, there was something else there.

_ Joy. _

Lord Hale looked at him with pure, vivid joy, radiating across the room, and the omegas were shooting Stiles dirty looks but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

For once in his life, Stiles didn’t look at his feet or forget how to move. He focused on a pair of green-gold eyes in the distance, and somehow descended the grand staircase with something he’d never managed before: grace.

He felt light, and unsettled, and like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but the vague promise that if he jumped, he might -  _ might _ \- grow wings and fly.

On the ballroom floor, the courtiers broke into applause, and Stiles lost track of Derek in the confusion. Scott glowed with praise and led the way to their thrones, helping Stiles to sit before raising his hands and drawing attention.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ Scott said, and a heavy, warm silence settled over the candlelit room. ‘Thank you all for… everything. For fighting. For sending your children and your people to the frontline, ready to sacrifice for Beacon. We have lost so much over the past few years, and yet, we have not lost that which makes us Beaconian.

‘We have not lost our sense of unity, whether we be Dorian, Halean, Gylian, Saffronian or from any other precious corner of our Kingdom. Beacon is vast, and diverse, and in that diversity we have found strength no one ever believed us capable of.

‘So, thank you. Thank you for your allegiance, your bravery, and your belief not just in myself, but in Beacon. Thank you for sending your loved ones into danger, for leaving your loved ones behind as you yourself fought without promise of ever again seeing home.

‘Thank you for proving to our enemies that our love for each other, for Beacon, is stronger than anything they could throw at us. Love is a strange commodity, one that cannot be mined for or grown, but we have proven that whatever else may come, whatever may be taken from us, Beacon will always be rich in love.’

The room exploded into rapturous applause. Stiles wiped tears from his eyes and hoped his eyeliner wasn’t ruined, even as he laughed with relief and pride and a thousand other warring emotions.

He saw Derek made it to the front of the crowd, his eyes glistening. At his side, Cora wasn’t so restrained: she cried openly, into her brother’s sleeve, his arm about her shoulders.

Stiles smiled at him, then his eyes drifted to the alpha woman at Cora’s side, and he leapt to his feet like he’d been electrocuted.

‘ _ Lydia! _ ’ he cried, and in an instant he was on his feet, decorum forgotten.

He ran to her side and she - normally cool and expressionless - laughed, held her arms out to him. She was beautiful, her red hair unfashionably loose and glorious about her pale face, her suit impeccable and her heels high enough to make her of a height with Stiles.

She wrapped him tightly in her arms and pressed kisses all over his face.

‘I’ve missed you!’ Stiles cried. ‘ _ Lydia _ .’

She looked older than he remembered, but then, he hadn’t seen her in nearly five years. She seemed even more self-assured, if that was possible, and she merrily ignored the excited murmuring of the courtiers around them, shocked by their omega prince throwing himself at an alpha woman only a few of them recognised.

At their side, Stiles was vaguely aware of Cora and Derek watching them, but his attention was focused on his sister, and the loving, wondering expression on her face as she drew away, cupped his cheeks in her soft palms and inspected him.

‘You fulfilled that promise of beauty, little witch,’ she said. ‘Look at you. She would be so proud. My lovely boy.’

Their mother had died when Stiles was young, tragically young herself. Though Lydia was only six years Stiles’ senior, she’d always been his protector - she was the only other sibling who’d inherited their mother’s gift for sorcery, and she’d taken over his tutelage.

With the war, with their father’s death, it had been easy - too easy - for Stiles to ignore the part of his soul that missed his only sister with painful ferocity. Now, he buried his face in her shoulder and let her hold him, let her guide him into the first dance of the night with a laugh on her lips and tears in her eyes.

After the dance, an alpha male Stiles didn’t recognise asked for the honour of the next, but Stiles clung to Lydia’s arm and politely refused. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but we have some catching up to do.’

He herded Lydia out onto the balcony, and demanded to know why she hadn’t written to say she was coming.

Scott and Kira’s vicious conspiracy to ‘surprise Stiles’ thusly brought to light, they settled against the balcony railing and set to catching up. There were details of their lives that letters couldn’t capture.

Lydia told Stiles about her omega daughters - three of them! - all of whom showed promise in sorcery and swam like little fishes in the waters off the coast of their island home. 

Stiles described his work in the infirmary, and - after some pressing - the past few weeks with Lord Hale.

Lydia listened with the quiet focus he remembered from his youth - it had always felt like such a reward to have Lydia’s attention all to himself.

‘Do you really want to be the Duke-mate of Hale?’ she asked, at last. ‘I always thought your aim was to stay here, help to raise Scott and Kira’s brood. If you don’t want to stay at court, you know we would love to have you on the Island. You don’t have to marry if you don’t want to.’

His heart glowed at the suggestion that Lydia would be quite happy to support her spinster brother forever, but he shook his head.

‘I’ve always thought I’d rather be alone than risk an unhappy marriage,’ he explained. ‘With Derek, I… I believe I would be happy. I believe he’d work, with me, to make sure of it. I’m willing to take the chance, if he asks me.’

‘You trust him,’ Lydia concluded. ‘That’s big, Stiles.’

He smiled. ‘I know.’

A few minutes later, they made their way back into the ballroom. Stiles scanned the crowd, then frowned.

‘I don’t see him,’ he said.

‘Lord Hale?’ Lydia asked. She glanced around the room. ‘I’ve never met him, I’m afraid, so I’m no use to you.’

Stiles looked again and spotted Cora, chatting to a handsome omega male at the edge of the ballroom. Lydia spotted the direction of his gaze and guided them both across the room.

‘Lady Cora,’ Stiles said.

Cora turned cold eyes - Derek’s eyes - on him. ‘Your highness,’ she replied.

He blinked at her. ‘Is everything ok?’

‘Of course. Would you introduce me to your companion?’

Stiles felt his heartbeat pick up, like his instinct for danger had been alerted, but his brain had yet to catch up. He glanced at Lydia.

‘Where is Lord Hale?’ he managed.

‘He determined that there was nothing for him here,’ Cora said frostily, ‘around the time you greeted your lady.’

Stiles felt a rushing sense of relief as comprehension - and irritation - dawned. ‘Cora,’ he said sharply, all formality gone, ‘this is my sister, Lydia, Princess-alpha of the Islands of Falkry.’

Cora blanched. ‘Your sister,’ she echoed.

‘I haven’t seen her in five years, and she surprised me,’ Stiles continued. ‘How would you have acted, if it had been your sister?’

It was a low blow, but Stiles was hurt. He knew both the Halean siblings were new to court, but if they’d bothered to ask  _ literally anyone _ before Derek stormed off, they would have understood.

Did they both think that Stiles was the sort of man to lead Derek on, when there was another alpha he preferred? Did Derek believe that, so easily?

‘Wait,’ Lydia said. ‘He saw you with me, and just… left?’

‘You said  _ my lovely boy _ ,’ Cora managed, looking helpless.

Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘ _ Lovely boy _ ,’ she said to Stiles, deliberately, ‘are you sure this is the man you described to me? You spoke so highly of him, but it seems the slightest hint of a challenge is enough to send him running.’

Cora bristled and looked ready to retort, but Stiles cut her off, addressing Lydia.

‘He’s insecure,’ he said, on a sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘Don’t think of him too harshly, Lyds. Cora, where has he gone?’

Cora’s anger was replaced with something else, something sad and tired. ‘He was so sure, the day he found you, that you’d never accept him. That he had nothing at all to offer you. Then he found out that you’re a gods-damned  _ prince _ , and…’

Stiles’ stomach clenched. If he believed Annabel, then Derek thought of Stiles as his one chance at love, as a fate-given gift sent after years of pain and suffering.

He couldn’t imagine being hit around the head with something like that, then almost immediately realising it could never be his.

‘He wasn’t even angry with you,’ Cora whispered. ‘He was just… heartbroken. Mad at himself for believing you’d want him. Hopeful that you’d be happy.’

Stiles wanted to slap his stupid face and kiss him senseless in equal measure.

‘Cora,’ he snapped, harsher than he’d intended. ‘Where is he?’

‘The palace gardens. He wanted some air.’

Stiles dropped his sister’s arm, turned on his heel, and headed out into the night air, ignoring both women’s protests behind him.

His mother had loved the walled gardens, done in the Gylian style. She’d added the night blooming jasmine that made them smell so sweet, and the herb borders she’d plundered for potions and spells. In her time as queen, she’d made this space her own.

It was one of only a very few places in the palace Stiles avoided.

Scent was such a strong source of memory, and the gardens… they made Stiles long for a woman who had been gone for a very long time. The memories were happy, but the hurt was still so fresh.

His heart ached for Derek, and for Cora. He understood the weight of their grief and loss. He understood why they had been cautious of him, and why Derek had fled.

He would not just let him go, though. His parents’ love had taught Stiles that things that are good do not last forever.

It had also taught him that  _ good _ was worth fighting for. His parents may have been together for a tragically short time, but the good that was their love echoed down the generations. It was in their children, in Stiles, teaching them to value themselves, and to seek out a lover who would push them to be better. Who would love them, even if they failed.

He found Derek on a bench, surrounded by jasmine, staring up at the near-full moon and, slightly surprisingly, in full wolf form.

Derek in wolf form was massive. From paw to shoulder, Stiles estimated he would be as tall as Stiles’ chest, with wild, brindled grey fur and yellow eyes.

Derek watched him, perfectly motionless. Stiles stared right back.

‘She’s my sister, you idiot,’ Stiles said.

The wolf tensed, then seemed to sort of… melt. His head sunk between his shoulders, his ears flattened, and with a  _ huff _ he lay down on the stone bench, refusing to meet Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles walked to his side and, in a parody of their meeting in the library, dropped to sit in the grass.

He reached out boldly and ran a hand between Derek’s ears, scratching them. The fur was surprisingly soft.

They sat like that for a long while, the music of the ball floating out across the garden towards them. Derek was clearly unwilling to talk - the lack of human vocal chords spoke for itself - but Stiles was willing to be patient.

Or, as patient as he could be. Which involved him monologuing at the poor wolf.

He told Derek about his childhood, and his siblings, and their lives since their respective matings. He told Derek how protective they had been of Stiles, the youngest and only omega, and how Scott had always fought for Stiles to be able to choose his own future.

Beneath his petting, Derek seemed to relax, so Stiles told him something else.

‘I don’t trust people easily, Derek de Hale. I think you and I have that in common. But I am asking you…’ his voice broke, humiliatingly, because he was  _ scared _ and this kind of confession was the role of an alpha, dammit. ‘I’m asking you to trust me with your heart, alpha. I’ll take good care of it.’

A pause, then. The sort of pause that you remember, because it represents a moment  _ after _ the old life, and  _ before _ the new, when everything is to play for and the future is helplessly uncertain.

Then there was a  _ puff _ of electric magick and Stiles was swept up into very human arms.

Very human, very  _ naked _ arms.

‘Oh my gods why are you naked,’ Stiles managed.

Derek’s eyes were glowing red in the dark. He pulled Stiles flush against him - gods, he was so  _ warm _ \- and shamelessly slid one big hand beneath Stiles’ shawl to the bare skin of his low back.

‘Derek. Focus, big guy. Where are your clothes?’ 

Stiles felt like every nerve ending in his skin was on fire, and his heart was beating double-time, but a lifetime of being conditioned for court couldn’t be so easily forgotten, and if they were caught like this…

Derek brushed his nose against Stiles’ cheek, breathing deep.

‘I love you,’ Derek said, soft and clear and heart-stopping.

Stiles’ brain short-circuited. He smiled uselessly at the alpha, who grinned back, looking younger and more care-free than Stiles had ever known him.

Then there were voices, in the distance, and Stiles’ panic returned in full force.

‘ _ Where are your pants _ ,’ he hissed, and Derek, still grinning stupidly, gestured vaguely in the direction of a large, lustrous rhododendron bush.

Stiles had only a moment to think - the voices were coming closer - so he pushed Derek into the bush and climbed in after him.

Stiles pulled on his various pieces of fabric, caught on branches, and managed to gather himself together just as an amorous couple wandered by, giggling softly to themselves.

He flopped over onto his back, panting, and turned his head to glare at Derek.

‘ _ Why _ ,’ he managed. He gulped in a breath, then elaborated: ‘why did you feel the urgent need to be all wolfy?  _ Then _ all… naked humany?’

Derek shuffled closer. He looked ridiculously at his ease, lying in the dirt inside a bush, naked as the day he was born.

Stiles’ gaze drifted down the wolf’s perfect body, then shot back to his face, only to attempt a glare.

‘I feel the urge to transform with strong emotions, and with the moon. Tonight had both.’ Derek shuffled closer still, until he was pressed against Stiles’ side, looming over him. ‘And then I needed to be human, so that I could hold you.’

Stiles melted.

‘Yeah?’

‘I love you,’ Derek said, and  _ wow _ , Stiles would never get sick of that.

‘You said that.’

‘I think you’ll have a hard time getting me to shut up about it,’ Derek said, seriously. His arm crept about Stiles’ waist, drawing him close, and his breath was on Stiles’ cheek. ‘I’m sorry I ran away.’

Stiles rolled his eyes. ‘You’re such a drama queen.’

Derek chuckled, low and rumbling in his throat, and his lips were so close to Stiles’, but he suddenly pulled away. ‘I have something for you.’

‘Yeah, I can feel that.’

A pause, then, when Stiles bit his tongue and cursed his own lack of filter, and Derek was silent, for a moment, before he burst out laughing.

‘Shut  _ up _ ,’ Stiles muttered. ‘Gods, I liked you better as a wolf.’

Derek’s fingertips lightly danced across the skin of his waist, and Stiles shivered. With his other hand, the duke was rummaging around, then made a small, victorious sound.

‘It was in my waistcoat pocket,’ Derek explained.

‘If you had something important in your pocket,’ Stiles asked, ‘why did you leave all your clothes in a bush?’

Derek  _ shushed  _ him - actually  _ shushed  _ him! - and pressed something cool and metallic into his palm.

Stiles wriggled around enough that he could hold it to the light.

It was an omega pendant.

The symbolism of the pendants was something all omegas were taught in their youths. It showed what family the wearer belonged to, firstly, through the imagery in the design. Stiles’ current pendant was filled by a raised impression of the bonfire-and-mountain design that represented his father’s family, the Royal Family of Beacon.

The material of it represented wealth, the weight of it, importance. Stiles’ current medallion - which had driven him mad nearly every day since his first heat - was heavy, thick, massive and cast in rich yellow gold, with embedded rubies.

The chain represented the families’ importance and connections - some ancient rule, leftover from a time when links in chains were expensive in fine metal. Stiles’ pendant lay on a long, hefty chain of wide gold links, falling just below his sternum.

The pendant Derek had handed him was just… different.

It was silver, on a beautiful, gossamer-fine chain that Stiles imagined would rest just over his breastbone. The pendant itself was round and just small enough to fit within his closed fist, smooth as a river pebble, with a simple triskele design on one side, and on the other, a vertical column of the phases of the moon, bracketed by two clear, cushion-cut diamonds.

‘It’s not much,’ Derek said, because Stiles had been quiet for a long time. ‘I don’t have much to offer you, Stiles, but everything I have… it’s yours. Silver, not gold, but no one will work harder to make you happy.’

Stiles looked over at the wolf. His face was very close, his eyes dark, beautiful eyebrows drawn together in intense concentration.

‘Is this a courting gift?’ he asked.

Derek left out a small  _ puff _ of air. ‘I thought about a lot of things. Books and kittens and Halean gemstones but… I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. How much I value the future you would give me, if you said  _ yes. _ ’

Derek touched a fingertip to the pendant. It spun, sparkling in the low light.

‘It was my mother’s courting gift to my father,’ Derek said.

‘You don’t know me very well,’ Stiles blurted. ‘I know you think I’m your soulmate and everything, but… I’m hard work. I’m easily distracted and then sometimes I get hyper-focused and forget everything but my work. I start arguments and I don’t bite my tongue when I ought to and sometimes my magick just sort of short-circuits…’

Derek silenced him with a small, chaste kiss to his lips. His eyes, glowing with magick, were serious and sincere.

‘I’ll learn. You are a difficult, fascinating, beautiful man and if you’ll have me, I will spend my life trying to make you happy and keep you safe.’

Stiles stared, mute, at the pendant. His eyes pricked with traitorous tears and it was very suddenly all too much, too fast, too close.

Derek’s voice was soft and had the remarkable effect of pulling him right back into the present moment.

‘Go back to the ball. Dance, be merry. You don’t need to give me an answer straight away.’

Stiles met the older man’s gaze. Derek’s eyes were sad, a little, but Stiles had the sudden insight that he was not worried about being rejected.

‘The world is unkind to birthgivers,’ Derek said. ‘You are expected to give up everything you’ve ever known for the promise of a future you cannot predict. I have some experience with leaving loved ones behind, Stiles. I won’t rush you.’

Stiles was kissing him before he’d had time to process the impulse. He grabbed the back of the Duke’s neck and pulled him close.

It was an imperfect kiss - the first Stiles had ever initiated. Their teeth  _ clacked _ , and for a horrible moment, Stiles wasn’t sure if he was supposed to focus on the top lip, or the bottom, or use his tongue -

Derek cupped his face and deepened the kiss and everything fell into place.

When Stiles tentatively touched the tip of his tongue to Derek’s lips, the older man released him gently.

‘I get the distinct feeling that you’ll be the death of me, little mate,’ he breathed, a smile Stiles couldn’t see in the half-light shining through Derek’s voice.

Stiles cheeks burnt, but his own smile felt like it might split his cheeks. He straightened up, and silently slid the Halean chain around his neck.

‘Pray. put some clothes on before you return to the ball, my Lord.’

Derek laughed. ‘I think I’ll let my wolf run this eve. I find myself with energy to burn.’

Awkwardly as he’d entered it. Stiles managed to get out of the bush, his silks only slightly maimed by the experience. He was going to stoop and say a goodbye to the wolf, but the noise of an approaching couple sent him running, laughing to himself like a lunatic, back to the ball.

The year Stiles was nineteen, he danced the night away with his sister, who pulled a stick from his hair and smirked at him, even as she revelled in his joy. He basked in praise for his brother, and sampled every wine on offer with Lady Cora, before that same lady gently deposited him back into Lydia’s arms with a roll of her eyes.

That night, he slept with his new pendant held tightly in his hand, and dreamt of things to come.

It was courtly law that the day after a grand ball, everyone slept until noon.

Which was why Stiles was so baffled and disgruntled when, with the sun barely risen, Annabelle shook him awake.

‘Sire,’ she whispered. ‘You need to get up.’

He moaned. ‘Bell, what in hells-’

‘The Argents are here.’

Stiles shot bolt upright. ‘King Christopher?’

‘The Princess Alpha. Allison.’

Stiles was out of bed in an instant. Annabelle, ignoring decency and decorum in favour of speed, helped him get dressed in a somber grey-blue silk.

‘Treaty negotiations?’ he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Those are long over - they had no leverage.’

‘I remember.’

The former Argent king and his heiress had been the driving force behind the war. When it was over, the Argents had lost everything. They had been forced to retreat from all Beacon territories, surrendering some key Argent land near the border, and had paid enormous tithes in gold and resources to aid the recovery efforts in Beacon.

Scott had put the late King’s second-born - a beta - in charge.

A beta king, while not unheard of, upset the power balance between the two nations in Beacon’s favour for at least the length of Christopher’s life.

There were many who believed Scott had been too gentle. That the Argents were not fit to govern themselves, and would continue to war-monger against nations with a significant supernatural connection, like Beacon, to curry favour with their bigot pantheon of gods.

But Scott had not been overly kind or naive. Scott had found it within him, when a decision had to be made, to remember a little girl who had spent many of her summers with the Beaconian royal children: Princess Allison.

Allison was formidable, but her heart was kind, and she had never been a great believer in her grandfather’s church.

By letting Argent keep its royal family in defeat, Scott was betting on Allison.

Many people did not understand that, but Stiles… did.

He’d always liked her, too.

‘So… why am I needed? Am I to act as queen in Kira’s place?’

Annabelle shook her head. He chanced a glance at her face and saw, for the first time since waking, that she was pale, her eyes wide.

‘Belle?’

‘We have to hurry. Are you ready?’

Stiles managed to murmur in the affirmative. He was never at his best first thing in the morning, let alone when he’d been drinking til the wee hours the night before, so their hurried journey to the King’s private parlour was a blur.

Before he knew it, he was standing before his brother and his former childhood playmate.

Allison was much changed. A scar ran the length of her face, and her once-long hair was cropped short, a streak of white worn without vanity despite her youth.

She was dressed in the formal attire of a royal Argenta, resplendent in scarlet with an ornate, if presently empty, leg quiver and a vast ceremonial bow across her back, strung with a braid of silk to show that she had no intention of using it as a weapon.

Then she smiled, and Stiles found himself smiling back.

He had, he realised, missed her.

She bowed, low, and he dropped a curtsey in response, glancing at Scott for any hint as to what the hell was going on.

‘Your royal highness,’ Allison said. ‘Such a joy to see you again.’

Stiles managed a smile. ‘And you, Princess.’

‘I always hoped I would see you grown, someday. You look so much like your mother.’

Stiles breathed out, helpless. ‘So I’ve been told.’

Scott finally stood from his throne. ‘Stiles, her Highness has something to discuss with you.’

Allison looked momentarily taken aback, as if she wasn’t expecting to jump straight in, but to her credit she cleared her throat and nodded.

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of his brother.

He had never seen that particular expression on Scott’s face. He looked older, exhausted, but firm and cold.

He looked remarkably like their father.

‘Your Highness, I have a proposition for you.’ She paused, then corrected herself. ‘I have a proposal.’

Stiles felt something cold and heavy settle in his stomach. Allison took a step closer, reached out her hand, and deposited a small, soft drawstring bag into his palm.

With a glance between her and Scott, Stiles opened it. Inside were seven dark, smooth little seeds with a faint glow to them.

‘These are soul myrtle seeds,’ he said.

Allison smiled. ‘I’m pleased you recognise them. I thought they would be useful in your magick practice.’

Stiles closed the bag. ‘I don’t understand. I thought it was illegal for anyone but Argenta Acolytes to cultivate soul myrtle.’

Allison nodded, eyes intense. ‘Yes, but changes are coming to Argent, and to our church. No longer will we hide from and fear the supernatural. No longer will the church dictate how we live, love and die.’ She touched her fingertips to Stiles’ hand, still wrapped around the seeds. ‘My father and I are building a new world. A kind world.’

‘Allison.’ Scott snapped, which surprised Stiles enough that he shook off the princess’ touch. ‘Get to the point.’

She seemed momentarily hurt, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. She focused instead on Stiles.

‘You and I know each other,’ she said. ‘We were good friends, as children, and I believe we can be friends again. We could work, side by side. You would have true power, true influence, and all the resources you can dream of to study your craft.’

Stiles stared at her. ‘This is a courting gift.’

The silence was long. Stiles couldn’t feel his own heartbeat.

‘S-scott?’

Stiles did not recognise the man who looked at him with such detachment.

‘An alliance between our families would guarantee peace for generations,’ Scott said. ‘Your child would be both Beaconian and Argenta.’

‘You said I could marry as I wish,’ Stiles managed. ‘You promised.’

‘This is bigger than you, Stiles.’

Allison interrupted. ‘My prince, I do not want you against your will.’ She stepped forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. ‘I will stay a week - you need not answer me before my horses are saddled once more. Whatever you decide, those seeds belong to you.’

She stepped away, into an antechamber Stiles supposed held her advisors and attendants. It was just him and Scott, left alone in the room.

‘I accepted Lord Hale’s gift last night,’ Stiles said.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I guessed. There was an invitation to join him for tea this morning.’

‘And yet you still think I should do this?’

Scott glared, his cheeks pink. ‘You are an omega, Stiles! You might have been spoiled your whole life into thinking otherwise, but in the end, you’re an omega. I’m an alpha. I can’t get away from my duty to lead, so why should you escape yours to marry?’

‘Spoiled.’ Stiles felt an enormous, strange pressure on his ears, like he was trying to reach Scott from deep under water. ‘Is that what you call it?

‘Yes!’ Scott paced. ‘You are allowed to work, to galavant about the town, to wear britches when you ride. I don’t insist you keep handmaidens or interrogate your chaperones. You are afforded every luxury, and then some, afforded to-’

‘To you.’ Stiles took a deep breath. ‘To you, and to Lydia, and to Jackson.’

‘Because we’re not omegas, Stiles!’

‘No. You’re not.’ Stiles couldn’t meet his brother’s gaze. ‘I have lived my entire life knowing that any scrap of independence, any hint of autonomy can be taken away at the whim of my keepers. I own nothing. I have things, all around me, things I can use and eat and enjoy, but everything can be taken away at a moment’s notice, at your will.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Isn’t it? Because I thought you were different.’ Stiles’ voice caught. ‘You told me you were different. And now we’re here. When did she get here, Scott? An hour ago? It can’t have been much more than that. Is that all the time you took before deciding on this?’

‘It’s the right decision for Beacon! You’re acting hysterical, Stiles. You like Allison!’

‘An hour!’ Stiles repeated. ‘You didn’t speak to me alone. You didn’t ask her if she has any other suggestions for lasting peace. You didn’t do either of those things, because the  _ moment _ there was a way for you to get out of a difficult situation by sacrificing my entire life you called me  _ spoilt _ before you’d even had a chance to hear my answer.’

Scott looked like he’d been slapped.

And Stiles had seen that face before. When the gardener pointed out a ladder that would have saved Stiles a broken arm, after he’d climbed an apple tree on Scott’s insistence. During a thousand escapades in their youth when Scott, innocent in his eagerness, had hurt or upset his smallest sibling.

‘Derek de Hale can offer us nothing,’ Scott managed.

‘Derek de Hale fought for Beacon. He lost family, and pack, and blood for Beacon. You may believe this offer is too good to pass up, Majesty, but do  _ not _ suggest it is because my soldier doesn’t stack up.’

There was a long, tense beat of silence. Scott seemed frozen, and for once, Stiles could not read his expression.

‘You can make me do this,’ Stiles said, very quietly. 

His voice echoed in the stone-walled chamber and he imagined his mother here, his birth-giving ancestors all lined up, watching him.

‘Even if I weren’t an omega, you are my king, and I will obey you if you order me to marry. I know I have no power here.’ He swallowed, hard. ‘If you order me, I will obey you. I will obey you above all others until I am no longer part of your household, and from then on I will obey my alpha-mate. I will act in the best interests of Beacon until the day I die, unless they conflict directly with those of my new home. My children will know of, and honour, their heritage.’

‘But I will never speak to you again.’

And with that, for the first time in his life, Stiles did not wait for a dismissal from his King. He turned, and he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the future is decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my GOODNESS I've been blown away by your comments! I love you all very much and you've been so helpful and insightful. Hopefully this conclusion gives you happy feels!

‘You look cosy.’

Stiles looked up from the nest of blankets he’d created in a corner of the Queen’s Library, squinting in the sudden sunlight.

‘Urgh! Why did you open the curtains?’ he complained.

Derek dropped to his knees, wordlessly asked permission, and when Stiles shrugged he crawled into the blanket-fort and settled down.

Stiles wondered if being immediately comfortable lying on the ground was a wolf thing or a soldier thing.

‘You’ve been missing for two days. The King says you have a cold, but I don’t think he’s been sleeping, and we can all hear the lie.’

Stiles glared at Derek. ‘And it took you this long to find me here?’

‘Stiles.’ Derek sighed. ‘I could find your scent if I were thirty miles upwind.’

Stiles chewed on that for a moment, his sleep-addled brain struggling to keep up.

‘Then why…?’

‘I thought you might need some space.’

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Derek produced, seemingly from nowhere, a steaming bowl of some kind of meat stew.

Stiles stared at him until he blushed.

‘You’ve not been in the great hall at mealtimes.’

Stiles took the bowl and sniffed it. He hadn’t realised how unsatisfying his steady diet of bread and cheese he stole from the kitchens was until he smelled the broth.

‘You’re so weird,’ he said affectionately, and tucked in.

Derek watched him eat with rapt attention and, just as miraculously if slightly less dramatically, produced an orange for desert.

Stiles split it and they ate in companionable quiet.

‘Annabelle told you everything, I take it?’

Derek hummed. ‘She did.’

‘I should’ve been the one to tell you.’

‘I understand why you weren’t. Though, if you’d been there, I probably wouldn’t have put my hand through a wall.’

Stiles blinked at him. ‘A plaster wall?’

Derek shook his head.

‘Ah.’ Stiles ate another slice of orange. Derek’s gaze lingered distractingly on his lips. ‘You don’t seem… punchy? At the moment?’

‘I took some time to think about it.’ Derek sighed. ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on your brother. Yes, he’s an idiot, but I see how his mind worked.’

Stiles choked on a bit of orange. Derek thumped him firmly on the back, then soothed the hurt with his palm.

‘That’s your King, my lord.’

‘I almost died for this kingdom. I know many, many people who  _ did  _ die for it. Scott is my king, and I will follow his command, but that doesn’t mean he’s not accountable for his bad decisions.’

Stiles wanted to kiss him, but without wine warming his blood, he didn’t know  _ how. _ So he just tore at the orange peel in his hands and swallowed, hard.

‘Marriages like the one Allison proposes are a way to win wars,’ Derek said. ‘We won. We don’t owe Argent any more gestures of good faith or promises of peace. Right now, your brother is absolutely terrified of going back to the days of war, and he’s grasping at this as a way to keep peace during his lifetime.’

Stiles sighed. ‘I’m not sure he realises how entirely he has broken my heart.’

Derek wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and all at once he melted backwards into the embrace. The wolf was so  _ warm _ , and he smelled so good.

‘You didn’t wonder, even for a second?’ Stiles asked, his lips moving against Derek’s collarbone. ‘She’ll be queen someday. Didn’t you worry that you’ve given your heart to some frivolous little turncoat, who would throw you over for the chance to be King Omega?’

‘Stiles.’ Derek seemed to give in to some impulse, and buried a hand deep in Stiles’ hair, pressing him close. ‘You’re wearing my father’s pendant.’

‘I never told you I love you.’

Derek tensed, very slightly. ‘No, you didn’t.’

Stiles wanted to cry. ‘I thought about finding you and breaking your heart apart. I’d tell you that it was all a joke, and you’d leave, and you’d find some strapping young wolf and be happy forever.’

Derek sighed. ‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because everything good that’s ever happened to me has happened because I’m selfish and obstinate and won’t take  _ no _ for an answer.’ Stiles pulled away, just enough to look into the Duke’s eyes. ‘I love you. I do.’

Derek’s smile was slow. His eyes crinkled first, then his lips, and he kissed Stiles breathless. Rolled him over until he was caged in by the wolf’s strong arms and kissed him with a smile caught between them.

‘I’ll run away if I have to,’ Stiles said firmly. ‘We can elope and live as travelling monkeys.’

‘That’s a good idea - all you need is the little hat.’ Derek kissed his neck until Stiles laughed helplessly.

‘Stop it! I’m meant to be miserably figuring my way out of a marriage alliance!’

‘You know, you and your brother are very alike in many ways,’ Derek said, gently.

Stiles pulled away, outraged. ‘You better not mean Scott. Also you better not mean Jackson. He’s my other brother, you don’t know him, but he’s a huge-’

‘You and Scott. You’ve both leapt straight to a decision without considering all of the options available.’

Stiles stared at the alpha.

‘And what options are available, darling?’

Derek smiled. ‘You need to call in reinforcements.’

Stiles rarely stepped foot in the Queen’s chambers.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcome. As an omega in her family, he was allowed in the Queen’s private spaces. He’d helped birth her two children, for goodness’ sake.

No, the reason he rarely visited Kira in her rooms was that they had been, once upon a time, his mother’s. 

The sun shone bright through the large bay window at one end of the room, filling the space with warmth and a dream-like haze. A large canopied bed stood against one wall, a crib both ancient and ornate by its side, and against the other was a decadent arrangement of floor pillows and rugs, where Kira took her meals in the manner of her home kingdom.

Beacon’s royal family was unusual in that some omegan ancestor had insisted that children do better in the company of their birth parent. While other nobles were raised in nurseries from birth, Kira - and Stiles’ foreparents - would raise her children in her own chambers, sharing a room.

She had countless nurses and maids to assist, of course, but until her children were old enough to wish a little privacy, they would sleep beside her.

This room had been Stiles’ entire world until he was six years old, and his mother had died.

He glanced around, looking for evidence of Scott. The King had his own private chambers, but in general, he lived with Kira, loving her too much to spend any time away. As far as Stiles knew, the only times they had slept apart in their marriage were when Scott had to travel, or when the babies were tiny and Scott desperately needed a good night sleep in order to perform his royal duties the next day.

He saw no sign of his brother in this room. No clothes thrown about for maids to collect - a habit many nobles doubtless picked up in infancy. No piles of maps or treaties on the bedside cabinet.

‘I kicked him out,’ Kira said, sweetly, from her seat by the window. She nursed baby Noah, while three-year-old Gwyn played with soldiers at her feet. ‘Come sit with me.’

Stiles crossed the room and joined Kira on the low daybed. Without a word, Gwyn made grabby hands and fought her way into a prime position on his lap, her little fists balled in his shawl.

He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to come to me,’ Kira said. ‘I even sent people looking for you, when you didn’t surface after a day.’

‘I needed some time to think.’

‘Clearly.’ Kira adjusted Noah so that he lay on her shoulder, patting his back. ‘Lydia should be here any moment.’

Stiles nodded and buried his nose in Gwyn’s hair.

‘Love,’ Kira said, gently, ‘you were never alone in this. Never. I know that you have felt alone much of your life, but it’s never been true. You have people who love you, and who will fight for you.’

‘Just not Scott.’

Kira was silent for a moment. ‘I’m on your side, Stiles, but that’s unfair. This betrayal is an act of fear on the part of my mate. He didn’t think it through.’

‘He’s king. It’s his job to think through decisions that could impact people’s lives.’

Kira nodded. ‘Yes. And he was king when the war started, and he had to send his friends - alphas and betas he grew up with at court - to die. He was king when his advisors were pressuring him to marry you off in exchange for reinforcements on the front line, and he refused, again and again.’ She sighed. ‘I am not making excuses. I’m just asking you to see the complete picture.’

There was a firm knock at the door. Kira called out permission to enter, and Lydia strode in, immaculate in a bottle-green suit, one hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial sword.

Her hair was wild and perfect around her face and her eyes were ablaze.

‘Two days,’ she snapped, the instant she straightened from the bow she made to Kira. ‘Two days you let me worry about you, when we could have been  _ fixing this _ .’

Stiles gaped. ‘Hey! It’s not my fault-’

‘No, it’s Scott’s. Gods know that I understand his fear, but to treat you like a pawn, after everything this family has been through? Unacceptable.’

‘If it weren’t for Lord Hale-’ Stiles began.

‘No,’ Lydia snapped. ‘It doesn’t matter that, by coincidence, this whole crock of shit happened at around the same time you fell in love with a gods-damned  _ war hero _ . With or without a prior claim, you were promised by us all the right to pick your own mate. And that’s what it ought to be. A  _ right. _ ’

Stiles felt his eyes prick. Gwyn, in his lap, twisted and patted at his cheeks awkwardly.

‘Unca Stiles,’ she said, ‘please don’t cry.’

Which, you know. Didn’t help.

‘Stiles is an adult,’ Lydia said, ‘so I can, if I  _ squint _ , see how Scott thinks he ought to surrender his happiness for duty. But Scott is the father of an omega boy. How can he look into his child’s eyes and accept that by his own law, Noah’s future holds nothing but the promise of a forced mating and misery?’

Kira straightened up a little and held up her hand to silence Lydia. ‘Sister, I understand your anger, but please remember: you have had longer to adjust to life as the alpha-parent of omega children. Scott is wrong, but please, have some empathy. He is so very afraid, and so very tired.’ The Queen took a deep breath. ‘I have proposed what I consider to be a suitable alternative to Princess Allison.’

Stiles sniffed, blinking hard, and stared at her. ‘You did what now?’

‘I am Queen Omega. I’ve been a little busy, of late, producing  _ perfect _ children, but I have every right to participate in politics, with or without my husband’s permission.’

Lydia’s grin was wide. ‘I’ve always liked you, Majesty.’

‘What did you do?’ Stiles asked. His gaze fell on little omega Noah, now asleep on his mother’s shoulder. ‘Did you promise her a future union?’

Kira rolled her eyes. ‘I have no doubt that future-Noah would run away to live as a mountain goat if I ever tried such a thing.’ She kissed the infant’s head. ‘I proposed that royal children from both households attend summer school at each other’s homes, on alternating years. Friendship, of course, being the enemy of hate.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Stiles said: ‘that’s… genius.’

Kira sniffed, but there was a gleam in her eye. ‘That, brother, is why I chose to marry a prince. You, I’m afraid, will have to settle for a mere duke.’

And Stiles threw himself at her for a hug, waking the baby and squashing the heir to the Beacon throne between them, and joyful chaos ensued.

Hale Hall was full of cats.

It was also full of wolves and children, but those were both only to be expected, and visitors knew not to stare if they saw a fully-turned werewolf herding a small gang of roving toddlers.

No, it was the cats that were the biggest surprise, and the thing that most former visitors chose to mention when discussing the place.

It wasn’t even, really, the number of cats. All keeps tended to have cats, for pest control, and while they were usually more feral than lap-cat, having a half-dozen pet cats roaming the halls wouldn’t really be a matter of note.

Especially when juxtaposed with the dozen adult wolves and their families who made up the Hale Pack, and who viewed the Duchal Residency very much as an extension of their own homes, on the grounds.

No, the issue - as Princess Alpha Lydia described to her brothers on the ride up to Hale - was the cats’ personalities.

The Duke Omega liked cats.

The Duke Alpha considered the care and maintenance of the Duke Omega’s happiness his primary function in life.

Therefore, the cats ruled the keep.

There was a large, fluffy grey cat who greeted guests at the door, demanding cuddles with an unholy scream who would bite your hand if you touched her belly. This was an instant blow to the dignity of many visitors, who assumed an audience with the Dukes would be a formal affair.

There were a pair of black cats that were rarely seen outside of the Duke Omega’s study and offices at the rear of the keep, where he saw patients from the community. The cats were identical in every way, but one was very affectionate and liked to be carried around as a baby, and the other had a strict look-don’t-touch policy.

The pack children played a sort of roulette with them. The victor would then carry one around, while the other cat slinked at their ankles looking ambivalent.

The loser would run screaming to the Duke Omega with a lightly scratched hand.

The Dukes’ own brood were masters of telling the cats apart, and would play a sort of bait-and-switch with guests they didn’t like, showing them how sweet ‘Baby Cat’ was, then insisting they pick her up, only to have swapped her for ‘Bastard Cat.’

Lydia did not tell her brothers about this on the ride up to Hale Hall. She believed, as the Hale children argued when reprimanded, that people should be nice when they were guests in Hale Hall, and that if Jackson and Scott were roped into a game of ‘baby-or-bastard’ they certainly would have deserved it.

There was a fat ginger tom cat who would sneak into guest bedrooms at night and sleep on their chests, so that they woke up thinking they were suffocating.

There was a slinky little grey cat who lived in the library and would only appear if you had been reading, without moving from one spot, for at least an hour.

If you made it to two hours, she would sit beside you and purr.

The rumour was that if you hit three, she’d climb onto your lap, but no one ever got three undisturbed hours in Hale Hall, so it was all theoretical.

When last Lydia had visited, the summer before, she had brought her mate, her three omega daughters and the baby, a tiny Alpha girl she’d named Claudia, for her mother. She’d also brought, all the way from their island home, a gift for her niece and nephew.

Lydia had passed the summer in the company of Island Kitten, so she felt well-placed to warn Jackson of it.

Kiaran, the older of Derek and Stiles’ children, was a fey little omega boy with more magick than sense and a far deeper affinity with animals than he had with humans. He spent the majority of his time half-transformed, wandering around with a furry face and a long, wagging tail - something that all the Pack wolves insisted he would grow out of.

Within an hour of Island Kitten’s arrival, she had been claimed as Kiaran’s own, particular cat. Lydia would have protested, except that at five years old, Kiaran was the only Hale child old enough to care. His twin sisters Laura and Anwyn were only three, and more concerned with riding their alpha-parent like a pony than with cats.

Lydia also didn’t tell Jackson and Scott about the pony thing. Neither man had met their nieces, and she wasn’t certain what Stiles included in his letters.

Either they would have grown out of that phase, or she’d be treated to the sight of her brothers’ faces as they took in the sight of the war-hero Duke conducting important business with two little beta girls permanently attached to either hip.

Kiaran had, in the space of the summer, trained the kitten to ride his shoulder.

Lydia understood that in the time since she had last seen boy and cat, this had escalated to an unusually large white cat dropping suddenly and unexpectedly from above people’s heads and landing on their shoulders for a ride.

The wolf pack apparently were able to take it in stride.

Visitors often, Stiles had written, thought it was a ghost and ran screaming through the Hall, the beast attached to their shoulder and yowling with fear and outrage.

‘You’d think,’ Scott said, scratching his newly grown beard, ‘that Stiles would have thought to mention this menagerie in his letters. Instead, I get page upon page of the children’s milestones and up-to-the-minute news on his latest construction projects around Hale.’

Lydia shrugged, but smiled. Stiles and Scott had long since reconciled. It had, in fact, come about a week before Stiles’ mating ceremony, when Kira had locked them both in a room and refused to let them out until they remembered that they loved each other.

Scott had accompanied Stiles down the aisle, and had tied the knot on his and Derek’s hand-fasting rope.

Lydia had cried so much that day she’d nearly been sick. It was a good memory.

‘I still can’t picture Stiles as a Duke Omega,’ Jackson said. ‘Keeping house and all that.’

‘I don’t think Derek holds him to many traditional values,’ Lydia replied. ‘You’ve not met him, Jacks.’

Jackson rolled his eyes, but smiled. He had, Lydia had discovered upon seeing her brother again for the first time in nearly a decade, mellowed in his old age. Apparently his mate was a good influence on him.

‘I’ve not seen them since they were wed,’ Scott said. ‘Five years, and Stiles has managed to get out of every single summons to court I’ve ever sent them.’

‘They don’t like to leave their little ones,’ Lydia explained. ‘Or each other. Or their pack. Or…’

‘I get it,’ Jackson sniped, ‘they’re disgustingly happy.’

‘Careful with that tone,’ Lydia warned. ‘I’m the only one who’s visited them before. I know where all the worst cats are hiding.’

Scott’s answering laugh drowned out Jackson’s protests, and before long, their carriage was navigating the winding road up to Hale Hall, and pulling into a courtyard riotous with animals and children.

Their carriage had barely slowed when the doors of the hall were flung open and the youngest of their siblings stepped out into the bright mountain sunshine.

Stiles was not the nineteen-year-old, broken hearted boy he had been.

His shoulders were broader, his muscles grown large and lean with hard work and hauling small children about. His arms were covered in Halean witch tattoos - a tradition he had thoroughly embraced during his tutelage with the Hale’s old emissary. The black ink spelled out unknown words in spiky northern runes, curved into the shape of birds, and spilled over one shoulder onto his chest, drawing the eye to his silver omega pendant and the smooth triskele tattoo that rested over his heart.

His hair was long, tucked behind his ear with a few braids attempting to keep the riotous chestnut strands under control. He wore a modified omegan dress - trousers, with a length of fabric half-wrapped around his waist and then over his shoulder, secured at the hip. He appeared to no longer bother with the traditionally accompanying shawl, his torso mostly bare.

On one hip he carried a small boy, a little under a year old. The last Lydia had seen of her little brother, this child had still been in his belly.

She ignored decorum - technically Scott should have been first up the stairs - and darted up the stairs to wrap Stiles in her arms.

He smelled like babies, magick contentment and…

She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘You stink of sex!’

He didn’t even blush. ‘ _ You _ didn’t send a rider ahead to warn us of your approach.’

‘You’ve been wed for five years!’

Stiles grinned. ‘On the subject of five…’

Scott climbed the stairs and gave his brother a hug, his full attention immediately stolen by baby Bowen.

‘Who is  _ this _ little duckling?’

Stiles laughed. The sound was light and pleasant and Lydia watched with interest and amusement as every wolf in the courtyard straightened and beamed at the sound of it.

Stiles might not have been a typical Duke Omega, but he was a very, very good wolfen alpha-mate, and the wolf pack adored him. It had taken Lydia some time to get to grips with her brother’s adopted culture, but she now got a little second-hand thrill watching how happy the wolves became, when they saw Stiles’ joy.

Stiles handed Bowen over to his uncle. ‘Bowen, this is King Scott, your uncle. It is imperative that you give his beard a solid pull to prove it’s not a merkin.’

‘Hey!’ Scott protested, but there was no venom to it - he was too caught up in the baby. ‘Hello, little duckling, I’m your uncle Scotty! Yes, I am!’

‘Kira says she’s done with babies,’ Lydia explained. ‘He’s broody.’

‘Three is plenty,’ Stiles agreed. ‘She’s too busy for more. Me, on the other hand -’

‘Stiles?’ Jackson called from the foot of the stairs.

All three Beaconian royals looked down, to where he had apparently squatted to pet Door Cat. 

Door Cat had jumped onto his lap and was screaming right into his face.

‘Just pick her up, Jacks, she likes you,’ Stiles said, but he dutifully headed down the steps, scooped up the cat, and deposited her in the arms of a beta wolf who had appeared out of seeming nowhere. ‘Thanks, Erica.’

Jackson straightened, still looking a little shell-shocked. He looked at Stiles, and visibly did a double take. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, eventually, ‘I’m looking for my loser little-’

He was cut off by Stiles’ enthusiastic embrace. ‘You asshole,’ Stiles announced gleefully. ‘I’ve missed you so much!’

They were all ushered into the keep. Apparently, due to the fair weather, most of the pack were outside, because the interior of the keep was unusually calm and restful. Stiles had modernised the building in his first few years as Duke Omega, and it was decked out with - as Jackson put it - shockingly good taste.

‘I left a lot of it to the Pack. Isaac, in particular, has a great eye. And once Derek and I figured out the gem export situation - thanks again for that, Scotty - money wasn’t an issue.’

Jackson nodded thoughtfully, then went off on one of his insanely boring tangents about import-export. Lydia sidled up to her youngest brother.

‘So. Five?’

He turned his head and grinned at her. He placed one hand on his lower belly. ‘I’m hoping for five. Another set of twins might kill us.’

She chuckled and kissed his forehead. ‘Congratulations, little witch.’

Stiles led them to a parlour, where he called for tea and they were able to catch up.

‘Derek should be here shortly,’ Stiles said, off-hand. ‘He was trying to wrangle the cubs into human clothes to meet you.’

As if summoned, the Duke Alpha arrived, with a woven wicker laundry basket on one hip and a large silver tea service held aloft.

‘Hello, all,’ he said into the stunned silence. ‘I ran into Liesel in the corridor.’

Stiles looked at his siblings. ‘One of the maids we brought from court. Derek gets a bit protective of our human staff.’

Derek was as huge as Lydia remembered, heavily muscled, with a well-groomed black beard and an elegant streak of grey in his black hair. He was dressed appalling casually for a nobleman of his standing, but judging by the stars in his mate’s eyes, it didn’t matter much to Stiles.

‘Tea trays weigh half a tonne,’ Derek grumbled. ‘She shouldn’t be carrying it on her own.’

‘Der, we’ve been over this. She’s human, not sick.’

Derek made a grumpy noise, expertly slid the tea service onto the parlour table and then, basket still on his hip, went to kiss his mate.

He kissed the top of Stiles’ head, but at the omega’s unhappy noise, lowered himself further to capture his lips.

What followed was a long minute or so where the siblings shifted uncomfortably in the knowledge that their hosts had entirely forgotten they were there.

Finally, Lydia cleared her throat. Derek looked up, pupils blown, and growled softly.

Stiles smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand. ‘Derek. Where are your manners?’

Derek blinked - it seemed his senses had momentarily left him - and then his gaze landed on Scott and he managed an awkward, laundry-basket-impeded, bow.

‘Your Majesty. You are most welcome.’ He repeated the gesture for Lydia and Jackson. ‘Lord Jackson, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.’

‘You don’t need to pretend, Hale,’ Jackson said, surprisingly jovial. ‘I know Stiles will have told you nothing but horror stories.’

‘Yes, but I also know my mate.’ Derek shot Stiles a fond glance. ‘I don’t doubt that some of it was much deserved.’

Scott waved baby Bowen’s fist, like a child asking their tutor a question. ‘What’s in the basket, Derek?’

Derek shot an apologetic glance at Stiles. ‘So, about the clothes-’

‘Did they ruin their clothes?!’ Stiles sat up straight, one hand on his belly. ‘I swear to the dark Goddess, Derek, if they’ve destroyed another set of fancy clothes-’

‘I didn’t even get that far.’ Derek knelt on the rug in the centre of the room and gently tipped the basket on its side. 

Out fell three wolf puppies. The largest was a brindled grey-brown, the two smaller a more icy grey with white peaks to the tufts of puppy-fluff on their heads and bellies.

Stiles tried to frown, but his smile belied it, and he bent to scoop up one of the little ice-grey girls.

‘Sometimes they get nervous meeting new people,’ he explained. ‘We’re trying to teach them that wolf-form isn’t a get-out-of-jail pass to escape being friendly to guests.’

Jackson seemed taken-aback, but Lydia simply scooped up the remaining puppies and handed him the smaller one.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that is your niece, Anwyn.’

Stiles inspected his own puppy. ‘Nah, that’s Laura. Say hi to Uncle Jackson, Laura!’

Laura licked Jackson’s face.

Lydia had the sincere pleasure of watching him decide between revulsion and adoration.

After tea, Kiaran was persuaded to return to human form, and they formed a parade of adult, child and puppies on a tour of the keep. Lydia carried Kiaran, dressed in a robe fashioned on his omega-parent’s tunic.

Stiles seemed perfectly happy to walk about with his torso completely exposed, the slight curve of his belly on display. She got the definite impression that he was well-used to sacrificing part of his outfit to dress a nude child for company.

The tour was mostly uneventful. They ran into a heavily pregnant omega - Isaac, Lydia recalled from her last visit - and his alpha-mate, who carried Island Cat on her shoulder, so at least that was one animal that wouldn’t cause any more chaos.

‘Annabel loves Island Cat,’ Kiaran said, shyly, into Lydia’s hair. ‘She’s cat’s favourite, after me.’

Lydia remembered Annabel. She was everyone’s favourite at the Hall, not just the cats’.

As their little group reminisced and re-learned each other, the Beacon siblings began to relax. Little Laura consented to transform back to human, followed by Anwyn, two little dark-haired girls with Stiles’ amber eyes. Bowen grew a tail, at one point, Scott cheerfully informed the congregation, but Stiles announced that 3-and-a-half human children was a majority win.

In the evening, they ate with the entire pack in the great hall by firelight. Children were ferried off to bed by packmates and Stiles and Derek cuddled in the low light, listening to stories of Stiles’ youth, stories of nieces and nephews far away but held in their hearts.

Jackson was only mildly mauled by Bastard Cat.

All was well, and the war was won.


End file.
